


Killed in Action

by XmagicalX (Xparrot)



Category: The Real Ghostbusters
Genre: Angst, Demons, Friendship, Gen, Possession, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-10
Updated: 1999-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xparrot/pseuds/XmagicalX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winston's turn to be dead. Don't worry, it doesn't take.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Killed in Action

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in Ghostwriters.

"This is _ridiculous!_" Peter Venkman announced, at enough decibels to make his thoughts clear to anyone in a quarter-mile radius. He then promptly ducked behind the metal industrial spool as several dozen bullets were fired in his direction.

"Well, it is," the psychologist growled, tightening his grip on his particle thrower as the slugs impacted the barrier. Beside him his teammate nodded in sober agreement. They were Ghostbusters, after all, not the National Guard. When the plant manager had called for their services at their major warehouse, he hadn't specified the nature of the haunting. Janine had mentioned the man had sounded desperate and frightened, but at least half their clients fit that classification.

Meeting the man himself should have clued them in. Venkman mentally kicked himself with the clarity of 20-20 hindsight. Tall, broad-shouldered, and square-jawed, Harris hadn't seemed the sort to be spooked by the likes of Slimer. Peter should have noticed the plant manager was quaking in his boots; his grip hadn't been as firm as one might expect from such massive hands, and he had continuously licked his lips while describing the two bug-eyed flying creatures supposedly harassing his workers. From the description, Egon speculated they were nether entities, Class Fives, annoying but nothing they hadn't handled a couple hundred times before. True, the man had seemed on edge, instantly agreeing to their standard fee and non-liability contract and stammering his gratitude with a nervousness that didn't match his rough-and-ready voice, but even macho guys could be thrown by direct contact with the supernatural.

It wasn't until they walked into the warehouse and every door and window abruptly slammed shut that they realized they had been set up. As they readied their throwers, preparing for a battle, a man stepped out before them. He was of medium height and build, black-haired and white-skinned—not a racial trait but like a skeleton, face and hands absolutely devoid of color. Egon automatically passed his PKE meter in the man's direction, and hastily switched it off again as the instrument's clicking rose to an agitated squeal. "That's not a human being," he murmured to his teammates.

"What was your first clue?" Peter drawled back in an undertone. "The skin or the eyes?" The man's eyes were vivid scarlet, glowing in the afternoon sunlight shining through the warehouse windows. The color was further enhanced by the surrounding mask of upside-down black triangles, the bases over the brows and the apexes on the cheekbones. It looked akin to a raccoon's markings, striking against the bone white.

"A demon?" Winston asked, readying his thrower, though it wouldn't do much good against the more powerful breeds of demons. They hadn't brought the destabilizer, either; they hadn't been expecting this.

"I'm picking up multiply readings—but his is strongest, at Class Eight," Egon reported, returning the meter to his belt and raising his own weapon.

Peter groaned. Not only a demon, but a _strong_ demon. Not his favorite kind by which to be ambushed. This being was most likely the conspirator, with Harris an unwilling participant, considering his too-obvious fear. Now the creature seemed to be waiting for them to make the first move, a faint smile playing over its thin white lips.

"Recognize him, Ray?" Venkman inquired of their resident occultist.

The auburn-haired man shook his head. "Don't think I've seen him in Tobin's—"

"You wouldn't." The man's voice was a sibilant hiss, warm as an Arctic breeze.

The threat in that monotone reply made Peter's skin crawl. "Count of three, guys," he murmured, and as one the Ghostbusters leveled their throwers at the man—the demon. The weapons would be more effective against the expected ghosts, but they were hardly defenseless.

The creature lifted his human-seeming white hands, languidly. He didn't raise his voice, and yet his whispered command seemed to echo in every corner of the warehouse. "Kill them."

The Ghostbusters stood their ground, readying themselves for an attack from any corner, until Winston suddenly shouted, "Get to cover, _now!_" and bolted for the crates lining the nearest wall. His teammates, not understanding but trusting his judgment, were hot on his heels. The four men threw themselves behind the barricade as a literal army of ghosts, armed to the spectral teeth, dropped down from the rafters.

Huddled behind the crates as ammunition splintered the wood, Peter forced himself to take his hands away from his ears and call over the steady retort of gunfire, "Everybody okay?"

"Yeah," Winston said through gritted teeth, squatting against the wall.

"Yes," Egon confirmed, crouching between Winston and Ray with a white-knuckled grip on his thrower.

"Think so," Ray panted, "but you're on my leg, Peter."

Venkman shifted to the side to free him. "Sorry, Tex. Great timing, Zed. Now what?"

Over the cacophony of rapid gunfire came the demon's freezing rasp, "Stop!" and the racket quit, the subsequent silence ringing in their ears.

"We must ascertain their positions and their natures," Egon began, and made a motion to stand that was overridden by Winston and Peter clamping a hand on either shoulder to hold him down.

"Don't think Janine goes for the sieve look, Spengs," Peter admonished. "Use the meter."

"Of course," Egon agreed, unruffled by the bullet holes in the wall a foot above his blond hair. He switched on the PKE meter again, quickly adjusting it to eliminate the too-powerful reading of the demon. "I'm registering thirty-five—no, thirty-seven spirits, ranging from Class Three to Class Five, arranged in even formation in front of us. They're all located on or near the ground; I would hypothesize that the mass of their weaponry prevents an aerial attack. They don't seem to be moving now."

"Waiting for orders," Winston said.

Ray nodded. "They're all obeying the demon—wow, a real ghost army! This is—"

"Don't!" Peter put his hand over his teammate's mouth before Ray pronounced the requisite 'great!'. "No G-word until we're out of this in one piece," the psychologist forbade, then looked to the others. "Mama Venkman didn't raise her son for life on a firing range. I'm betting they aren't out of ammo—just waiting for better targets. Do we have enough traps for them?"

"Thirty-eight entities in eight traps?" Egon raised one eyebrow in disbelief. "We could rewire them to contain perhaps half the ghosts, in a few hours—"

"No way they'll hold back that long," Winston said. "They're probably regrouping now."

Spengler rechecked the meter and nodded. "In fact they seem to be approaching."

Peter had no more inclination to be a sitting duck than a clay pigeon. "Any suggestions?" He glanced at Winston, of the four of them the only one with combat experience.

"Split up," Zeddemore immediately advised. "Divide the commander's attention."

Peter nodded. "All right—we'll stay in pairs. There's some big metal spools over there," and he tipped his head at a diagonal to their current refuge. "From there we might get a better look at what we're up against. Winston, you're with me. Ray, Egon, you stay back and cover us with the throwers. You're closer to the doors—if they all rush Zed and me, you get out, we'll deal while you call in the Army. Otherwise we'll keep in touch over the walkies, and bug them while you geniuses brainstorm something really snappy. Got it?"

Egon and Ray both opened their mouths several times during the rapid-fire instructions, but in the end only nodded agreement. Peter gave their arms a hard squeeze, then squirmed past them to crouch beside Winston. He met his teammate's eyes, confirming their readiness, then counted, "One, two—"

On three Ray and Egon both jumped to their feet, firing their proton streams at maximum power and dispersion, casting brilliant flickering bolts of energy over the advancing battalion. The ghosts screeched and wailed but Peter ignored them, pushing off the crate like a rocket and blasting toward his goal, Winston right behind him.

He was deafened the thunderous clatter of gunfire as he pounded across the cement floor, and then he crashed into the ridged metal, pressing himself into the safe corner between two of the giant spools. There were six total, standing in pairs, and it was a tight fit between them, but they made it. When the noise again ceased Peter straightened and looked to Winston gasping beside him, a sheen of sweat over his dark face. "You okay?"

Zeddemore caught his breath. "Sure." But the smile which should have accompanied his assurance was absent.

The walkie on his belt hummed. "Peter?" Egon's anxious voice inquired.

"We're intact, Egon," Peter reported. "Gonna have some fun now. Over and out." Removing his PKE meter from his belt, he scrutinized the readings. The ghosts had regrouped, seventeen heading in their direction while the other twenty remained concentrated on Ray and Egon. That wouldn't do. The demon hadn't moved from the warehouse center.

Maybe he was one of those bosses who preferred his underlings to take all the punishment as well as do all the work. "Target the demon," Venkman whispered to Zeddemore. "You take him from that end and I'll take him from this one." They maneuvered to either side of the spools, and at Peter's signal sprang out and fired, full-energy, in the demon's direction.

Peter saw a silvery aura glow into being around the figure, and the beams slid off it like rain flowing over a plastic tarp. He also saw flashes of artillery, and swiftly cut off the stream to duck behind the spools again as the bullets whipped past. One came so close as to ruffle his hair and another actually tore the sleeve of his uniform, though neither broke skin. "This is ridiculous!" he shouted, panting in protest, "It looks easy in cop films!"

"This isn't the movies, Pete," Winston grimly returned.

Of course not; the gunmen of cinematic shoot-outs were living humans, and the bad guys' aim usually was worse. But at his friend's tone Peter twisted around to get a closer look at Winston, taking in his tight hold on his thrower and the set of his mouth, more rigid than was normal for his easy-going teammate. Reaching over, Peter gripped his upper arm. "Yo, Zed, how're you holding up?"

Winston started at the contact, then shrugged it off. "I'm fine."

_Yeah, right_. Contrary to popular opinion, Peter hadn't slept through every psychology course in college, only the dull ones. It was clear something was bothering Winston, and Peter had a good idea what, but rather than press him outright he squatted between the spools and remarked, "I'm not complaining, but how'd you know about the ambush?"

A degree of tension left Winston's shoulders as he leaned against the corded metal, his thrower cradled in his arms. "Just guessed," he admitted. "Did you see what that clown's wearing, other than too much eye shadow?" When Peter pled ignorance Winston sighed, the tension returning. "Army fatigues," he said. "Didn't get a close look, but I thought I saw general's stars, and a general would have an army..."

The psychologist nodded. Zeddemore's combat experience was damn useful for their job—but that experience, useful or not, wasn't something he enjoyed remembering. While he didn't repress it, Winston never talked much about his time in Vietnam. Peter had long thought that Winston enjoyed Ghostbusting in part because he could put to good use a soldier's skills, while not being forcibly reminded of where he learned those skills. Usually, anyway; on a typical bust the ghosts didn't shoot back. The gunfire was painful to Peter's ears; in Winston's, layered with experience and memories, it would resonate with old nightmares. He was keeping his cool as always, but it was taking a toll on him, his jaw clenching that much more with every metallic click echoing through the barricade.

"You tell me if you're not fine," Peter instructed in no uncertain terms. "And after we take care of this Mime from Hell we'll go home and get Spengs to whip up some cocoa."

Egon's hot chocolate was the standard prelude to a late-night discussion. Winston grimaced. "Don't suppose—"

"There's any way out of that? Nope," Peter assured him cheerfully. He sobered at the flash of emotion that crossed his teammate's face, spoke quietly and quickly but with an intensity that couldn't be ignored, "We've all got buttons, Winston—if that demon was the lord of cockroaches I'd be a basket case. If you can handle it, great; if you can't, we'll work it out afterwards. We'd only be ripped if you didn't trust us enough to let us know where you're really at."

"I know," Winston growled, and then he shook his head and smiled, a real one. "I know," he repeated, without the irritation. "I can deal." He paused. "But thanks, Pete."

Peter grinned back. Winston knew where he stood with the team, where they all stood, always, but it never hurt to be reminded. "You set for Sergeant Pepper and his Lonely Heart gunners out there?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Winston returned, hefting his weapon.

The clicks and shuffles were getting closer—how many spectral soldiers were bearing down on them now? Snatching a quick breath, Peter gripped his thrower one-handed and stuck it out to fire blind, a wide beam at low energy. He heard the ghosts shriek and hopefully jump back from the charged proton stream, withdrew his hand before any of them remembered their guns. A shot-off thumb was hardly a heroic battle scar, or a convenient one. Winston, watching, adjusted his own thrower to a lower setting. They didn't have enough power to keep blasting indiscriminately at maximum strength, and a high energy stream didn't do jack to the demon as it was. A lower power stream could distract the lesser spirits, at least.

Before they tried again Peter's walkie crackled to life. "Peter, you there?"

He grabbed it. "We're here, Ray—tell me you've got something brilliant! Over."

"We've got something, anyway," Ray replied, but even through the static Peter could tell that his tone wasn't as enthused at it might be. "The demon's the key; if we can get him, the others might give up, or at least be distracted enough that we can run."

And once they got out, with the demon out of the way it shouldn't be too difficult to return and trap the rest. "Sounds good. So how do we take care of Colonel Sanders? Did you see what our beams did to it?" That is, nothing.

"We saw." Ray hesitated, just long enough to make Peter wince, knowing he wouldn't care for this plan. "Egon's got an idea," the occultist said. "We don't have the destabilizer, but he thinks we can get a similar effect with several traps, if they're placed properly, and the demon should then be vulnerable to our streams. We'll need the fields of at least three traps, all about equidistant from one another."

"Make a triangle, with the demon in the middle." Peter mentally visualized the arrangement. If Egon and Ray opened one trap, and he and Winston opened another—they'd need a third, though. A third placed _behind_ the demon general.

Wonderful. Just gr—no, he had forbidden that word. Just peachy. "Ray, you do remember there's a small army between us and the demon? Ghosts with big guns?"

Egon's voice rumbled over the walkie. "We know. There's a row of crates along the opposite wall behind which one might hide. I believe I could make it across the floor —"

"_Through,_ the ghosts?" Peter demanded. "You got invisibility spray in your back pocket?"

"I could do it," Ray volunteered. "If you distracted them, I could sneak past—like that camp game, German Spotlight, with the flashlights. I've won that."

"This ain't a game, Tex," Peter vetoed him. "You get caught now and the penalty box's a lot rougher. You and Egon stay put, and I—"

"I'll go," Winston said. "You're right, it's not a game. I've done this for real."

"Nothing doing," Peter told him. "I'm going. If someone's risking their life—"

"It'll be me," Egon broke in. "It's my plan—"

Ray cut him off, apparently by grabbing the walkie because Egon's bass faded as his voice grew louder, "It's my idea, too, and I can do this, Peter."

"I can do it without getting shot," Winston said clearly. "I've done it before. I've done worse—crossed an open field, no cover, and didn't get clipped. I know what I'm doing. You guys keep 'em busy for ten seconds and I'll get the trap where it needs to be."

"So can I," insisted Ray.

"Me, too," muttered Peter, and over the walkie heard Egon in the background making a similar argument. All of them had the same thought, he knew—the one to go would be spared the agony of watching one of the others risk their life. But they couldn't all try. And the best man for the job was the one who could survive—they all had to get out of this. Peter didn't believe either Egon or Ray had a chance. He himself...possible. But there was another. He leaned his shoulder against the metal spool and met Winston's eyes. "You did this before?"

Winston nodded. "I got a good look around before. It's not very far to the crates, and I'll make a tricky target running. Once I'm back there I can move silently. You guys are all good, but experience is the best teacher. I can do this."

Winston of them all was the most capable of honestly judging his limits. If he said he could...Peter sighed and spoke into the walkie. "All right, Winston's going—Egon, tell him what he needs to do."

It wasn't too complicated; two minutes later they were ready to go, delayed by a couple seconds of blasting to slow the ghosts' approach. Peter looked at his teammate one last time. "You come back in one piece, Zed."

"Scout's honor." Winston grinned. "And Pete? I'll go for that cocoa tonight after all."

"Already told you that's not optional." Peter took up position as Winston shed his pack in order to move faster and squeezed past to crouch by the other end of the barricade. "Ready?" the psychologist whispered.

Zeddemore nodded, Egon whispered confirmation over the walkie, and Peter initiated the planned diversion. Unhooking one of the traps on his belt, he tossed it over the spools into the midst of the surrounding army and stomped on the trigger. Two more clatters heralded Egon and Ray repeating his action, and then everything was drowned in cacophony, the crackle of their proton streams mixing with the hissing of the traps' fields and the screeches of the spirits, and the retorts of many guns silencing the traps. Peter added his own voice to the tumult, hoping his yell sounded more triumphant than desperate, though no one could hear it as it were.

An explosion rattled the windows of the warehouse, the resultant shockwave leaving his ears ringing. One of the traps must have caught a ghost before it was destroyed—who knew they were that bullet-proof? Shaking his head, Peter realized all noise had stopped, their little battle coming to another standstill. A quick glance ascertained that Winston was no longer with him behind the barrier, and his heart skipped a beat. He hadn't heard anything to indicate the ghosts had taken someone down, but that didn't guarantee—

Over the walkie Winston's whisper reported, "Made it."

As if there had been any doubt. Peter smiled. Now they only needed to keep the army's attentions off Winston until he could place the trap. "Hey!" the psychologist called through the barrier. "Captain Kangaroo! I left my white flag at home, but can we call a truce?"

A brief volley of gunfire answered his hail. Peter shied away from the spools rattling under the barrage, hollering over it, "Is that a no?"

The attack abruptly ceased. In the resultant silence the demon's voice buzzed like a hornet swarm. "There is no point to peace."

"You missed Woodstock, huh?" remarked Peter. "Why fight us? We're nice guys. We mean you no harm." Lying to demons had never bothered him, especially not when their lives were on the line.

The creature's reply came slithering over the barrier. "You are not a threat."

"Really? This is just a surprise party?" Peter considered it. "I might hire you for my birthday. Can you make balloon animals?"

"I summoned you to evaluate your strength, and the strength of my soldiers," the demon told him, and Peter shivered in spite of himself at the indifference in its inhuman voice. "I am satisfied with both. I will let them kill you now."

No sooner had the demon general stated this when the walkie on Peter's belt crackled. "Set to go," Winston said.

Peter's feral grin was invisible behind the spools, but his teammates at least would hear it in his voice. "Sorry, bunky!" he shouted. "Time's up!" And he triggered the trap.

White light flared outward, and he averted his gaze, listening with great satisfaction to the enraged howl rising from the warehouse floor. Narrowing his eyes, he ducked around the spool and peered through the brilliance at the demon in its center. The ghosts caught in the cones of luminescence were writhing and whirling, wrenched in three opposing directions by the traps' pull. The demon was too powerful to be so torn, but it seemed momentarily paralyzed, either affected by the field interactions or out of sheer disbelief. "Not a threat, huh?" Peter smirked. Demons always did tend to underestimate humans.

The majority of the ghosts were outside the fields, but as Ray had predicted they were floored by the assault on their leader. Watching them out of the corner of his eye in case any specter had a sudden attack of initiative, Peter took aim and fired a full-power stream at the demon. This time it hit home; the thing's howl climbed in pitch to a pained screech, and it clawed the air as if it could deflect the energy with its human-seeming arms. Two more streams joined Peter's from Ray and Egon's direction, and the screech became almost ultrasonic as its efforts to escape increased. Fighting to keep his bucking thrower steady with both hands, Peter yelled into the walkie, "Winston! Throw out your other trap!"

"You got it," he barely made out Zeddemore's reply over the chaos. Through the traps' brilliance a small dark silhouette bounced once and then snapped open, adding a fourth glow to the fireless conflagration, incandescence flaring up to the high ceiling in a geyser of light.

Peter didn't expect the demon to be sucked in straight away, but he thought that they could force it into the trap's prison and had braced himself for the tussle. He was off-balanced by Egon and Ray's synchronized shout, "No!"

Their beams snapped off, leaving Peter to hold the demon alone. "What?" he shouted.

What he made out of his teammates' answering babble was far from comforting. "The traps-...-unstable-...-get out-...-explode!"

Peter pared it down succinctly. "_RUN!_" He cut his own stream and took his foot off the trap pedal, but the trap didn't slam shut as it was supposed to, still pouring forth light, as were the other three. Not good; he didn't have to be Egon or Ray to know that much. Diving out from behind the barrier, he saw Winston barreling toward him, not fast enough for Peter's tastes. "Come on, come _on_!"

Egon and Ray had already blasted the door and exited; Peter crouched to sprint after his teammates as soon as Winston made it. He had circled the traps and was passing now—

Mid-dash Winston jerked to a halt, his legs thrashing out in front of him. Peter stared as a human form emerged from the glowing chaos of the traps—human in shape, but as white as the light illuminating it, and the hair and eye mask burned pitch black against that brilliance. The white hands were wrapped around Winston's throat, and a maniacal grin stretched the bleached skin tight over its skull.

"Let him go!" Peter hollered, and charged, readying his thrower as he raced toward them. Even a demon wouldn't be immune to a maximum proton blast at point-blank range—he hoped, anyway. The traps were starting to whine with a high-pitched, unmistakable urgency, their light intensifying, and Winston struggled in the creature's iron grip, feet kicking a foot above the floor. Peter had almost reached them, ready to ram his thrower into the demon's side.

The whine became a shriek, then a squeal, and then the world ended. At least it felt that way to Peter, who was lifted up as if by a giant's hand and cast into empty space. Everything was too bright to see, but he could feel himself flying backwards, at first through air so hot it burned his lungs, and then abruptly cool, cold, blizzard-freezing. There was no ice, however, and the chill didn't penetrate his skin.

The ghosts, he realized, all of the ghost army flung out with him, or perhaps fleeing of their own volition, and he was carried with them as they surged from the explosion, body-surfing a cresting wave of psychokinetic energy. At last it broke and he tumbled down, but the panicked spirits, rushing away with no semblance of reason, cushioned his fall by virtue of their semi-solid presence. He landed hard enough to knock the wind out of him, but no worse injury.

Peter had no chance to appreciate the irony of ghosts inadvertently saving a Ghostbuster's life. As soon as he struggled to his feet, frantically fighting for breath, he saw the inferno the warehouse had become, orange flames reaching up to the gray autumn sky.

Someone called his name, two voices in concert, and he twisted around and spotted Egon, on his knees on the pavement apparently searching for glasses lost in the explosion, and near him stood Ray, one arm up to shield his face from the heat—and that was all. Whirling, Peter scanned the area. Many men in work clothes heading toward them, but no one he recognized—

"Winston!" he shouted, and felt the blood drain from his face as he remembered his last glimpse of his teammate. He hadn't been able to run—if the demon had still been holding on when the explosion hit, almost at ground zero—

Peter stared at the white-gold heart of the fire, and took a stumbling step toward the warehouse, the heat almost a physical pressure forcing him back. He set his shoulders against it, fighting the internal animal instincts screaming for him to turn aside; he couldn't, his teammate was among those flames, he had left him among them—

"Winston!" Ray yelled, and out of the corner of his eye Peter saw him running straight for the fire, as if he didn't even feel the heat or the danger.

Peter could ignore the instincts of self-protection, but not those which guarded his friends. With an anguished groan he leapt into Ray's path, grabbed him and wrestled him back. Ray fought him every step, crying hoarsely, "No! Winston's in there! He's in there, Peter! We gotta—"

"We can't!" Smoke and pain made Peter's own voice hardly more than a rasp. Ray stopped struggling, abruptly, as if his wires had been cut, and Peter leaned against him, just as still. The proton pack on his back, usually a weight to which he was so acclimatized as to hardly notice it, felt heavier than Atlas's burden; he sagged under it.

A hand gripped his shoulder, and he dragged his eyes up to Egon's face, pale as he stared over their heads at the blazing warehouse. Approaching sirens howled warning, and Peter was peripherally aware of a murmuring crowd growing around the fire. Yet for all the people, they were alone, surrounded by a vacant band as if a thin, invisible yet impenetrable wall divided them from the world. They stood on an island, only the three of them—it should be four. That difference weighed on him heavier than the pack, burned hotter than the fire.

Ray's breaths were coming too fast, catching and tearing in his throat as he shook his head, a denial Peter wanted to echo, wanted to believe. But Egon checked the PKE meter, lifted it from his belt and let it fall again to grasp his friends' shoulders again, one hand on Ray's and the other on Peter's. Support for them and for himself as well; Peter looped an arm around him to steady him. The tall man's voice was even but low, so quiet as to be almost inaudible. "I am reading only residual biorhythms."

Only the residuals, the remains, echoes of a life already passed. Ray swallowed, then buried his face in Peter's shoulder, as if to hide from what he had already heard. Still holding onto Egon, Peter put his other arm around the younger man, wishing he could hide him, wishing he could hide himself. The crowd pressed closer, soon to break through the wall, the world rushing in to catch up to them with flames and demons and loss. But for an instant they stood alone, three in a space intended for four.

 

* * *

"What happened?"

Peter glanced up at the question, the voice familiar, though the upset tone was not. Janine Melnitz was rarely one to sound so uncertain. He spotted the red-head elbowing her way through the crowd to face down a police captain twice her size, called to her, "Janine? We're over here."

She joined them by Ecto-1, looked the three of them over sharply, but he knew her well enough to see the anguish that flickered in her eyes for all the intensity of her scrutiny. Her gaze lingered on Egon but it was Peter she addressed, "Dr. V? What—where's Winston?"

Grateful for the vehicle at his back to lean against, he nodded at the warehouse. The flames had been extinguished, leaving a smoldering shell, the concrete skin mostly intact but the insides blackened and charred, crates and packing materials reduced to ash, the artillery abandoned by the ghosts twisted into worthless metal slag. The police would have a devil of a time tracking the origins of the weapons, if they hadn't just been conjured out of air by the demon, of course. Cops were combing the wreckage now, accompanied by a team of firemen dousing the final embers. Egon had ascertained that supernaturally the place was no longer 'hot', so this work was better left to the more normality-based experts.

Janine looked over the crowd's heads at the wreckage and shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself, her blue eyes round and shiny with tears. "I—I just caught the news bulletin. You guys were supposed to be back hours ago; when you weren't I—I knew—but I hoped—"

The news. Peter flinched back so violently he barked his knuckles on Ecto's hood. He had seen the reporters milling with the rest but it hadn't occurred to him before—"We—we gotta call Winston's family, we can't let them find out on the news, we have to—"

"It's all right, Peter," Janine told him, then swallowed as she saw their expressions. Hastily she explained, "They aren't saying anything in the news, the report I saw didn't even mention you guys—I already knew you were here. How—are you sure—"

"It was a demon," Ray said, but it hardly sounded like Ray, so soft and dead was his voice. Instead of child-like enthusiasm there was an ancient weight to his tenor, exhausted darkness quenching his light. "We were ambushed, and we were trying to trap it, and it went wrong..."

Automatically Peter put an arm around him, though he felt too empty for the comfort to be anything more than a reflex reaction to Ray's tone. At his other side he heard Egon's bass explaining, "We attempted to create a destabilization field, but it backfired, and the...the explosion resulted."

Peter shook his head at the catch in the physicist's usually resolute voice. "It was me," he said dully. "I told him to throw the trap out, and that blew everything to hell. We were getting it, the demon, but I messed up and it got Winston instead..."

There was a pause, just long enough for everyone to assimilate this and acknowledge its truth, before they denied it, an instant too late—"No, Peter!"

"Peter, you could not have known—"

"Dr. V, that's crazy!" Janine out-shouted the other two, already hoarse from protesting other too-real truths. She glared up at him and snapped, "I wasn't here and I don't get what happened yet, but I know it wasn't your fault, not on purpose, anyway. You goof off, but you don't let us down, ever."

"Winston's dead," he snarled. "I'd call that breaking a confidence." None of them would meet his eyes, Ray with his head down and Egon focused on some invisible point between him and the warehouse; even Janine turned aside when he stared at her. Janine who never backed down from a challenge, not taking this one, because she knew there was no way to argue it.

"Are...are we sure?" she asked instead, barely whispering.

Egon nodded jerkily. "There is no trace of his biorhythms remaining."

"But the fire could be obscuring them," Ray said suddenly, a flash of hope crossing his face, too faint to be believed but he clung to it all the same. "Maybe we're just not picking him up, maybe..."

Even if their instruments were worthless, Winston hadn't escaped the building, and there was no chance he could've survived that blast. Peter was considering pointing this out when the crowd parted and he saw two police officers escorting a large man with a familiar square-jawed face.

Peter moved before he consciously recognized him; by the time memory caught up with action he had his hands wrapped around the man's collar, almost lifting Harris off the ground despite his size and the two cops holding him back. "You set us up!" the Ghostbuster snarled. "You _bastard_!"

The plant manager cringed, no mean feat considering his position. If their client had been nervous when he had shown them to the warehouse before, now he was literally quivering with terror, stuttering fearfully, "I'm sorry! I—I didn't want—"

"Want what?" Peter shook him, hard. One of the cops laid a restraining hand on his arm; he shrugged it off, glaring at the man in his grasp. "Why'd you do it? Did you know what the demon was gonna do? Did you know?"

"I—I didn't!" Harris denied. "He—the demon came to me, yesterday—he knew me, he knew my family. He told me to call you, he said if I didn't bring you here, all of you, then I'd pay, my whole family would—he said I'd never see them again alive. He wasn't lying, I knew he wasn't—I could tell, he wasn't human, he could do anything. When I made the appointment with you, he was with me, watching, and this morning, when I talked to you, I knew he was still watching. I could feel his eyes. I couldn't warn you, he'd've known!" The man was almost choking on the words. "I didn't know what he wanted, but I had to do it—"

Peter shoved him back into the policemen's hold, the anger driving him vanishing as quickly as it had come. Harris was still babbling but he couldn't hear him, the sound drowned in the void filling him. Over that deafening silence he only distantly made out another call, "Dr. Venkman?"

He forced himself to face the approaching officer. The police captain was in uniform, ash dusting his navy slacks and his cap in his hands, short light hair standing at odd angles to his scalp. He nodded at the Ghostbuster, either respectfully or regretfully. "My people are almost done examining the site. We've found the remains of one body. It's too badly burned to be identified, but as it was located near the center of the blast point, and there's no plant employees missing, it's almost definitely your man." He bowed his head again. "I'm sorry."

Harris made a strangled sound—he had been in hiding; perhaps he hadn't known. Peter ignored him, sensing his three friends behind him. They must have heard. He should turn to them but he couldn't make himself move, maybe because he didn't want to see their expressions, or maybe because he didn't want them to see his own.

He took a step backward, and his teammates must have as well because he didn't bump into anyone, though he knew Ray and Egon were close enough to breathe down his neck. He was readying himself to turn when Harris reached out and almost caught his sleeve, withdrawing his hand an instant before he touched. "Please," the big man stammered, the frightened look on his face unfitting his powerful build. "I'm sorry, Dr. Venkman, I didn't mean—I didn't have a choice, there wasn't anything I could do."

The absolution he wanted wasn't in Peter to give, but the psychologist nodded once, stiffly, and Harris seemed to take this positively, because he went on, "I have to know, did you get it? Am I safe, is my family safe from that—that thing?"

The demon, with its black and white face and scarlet eyes and death's head smile. "I don't know," Peter said. "Egon?"

The physicist's response was too quick in coming. "I am not detecting its PKE readings."

Meaning it was no longer here. But if it had been destroyed, if they had had any evidence that it was truly gone for good, Egon would have said so.

Peter met Harris's eyes, unsurprised when the plant manager ducked his steady gaze. He spoke anyway. "You're safe," he assured their client. "Your family's safe." If the demon was still out there, they would find it, and get it, before it attacked again. It wasn't too late for that much, at least.

 

* * *

Their late dinner was a silent affair, and Janine filling the empty fourth chair did not make that absence any less noticeable. As soon as was reasonable Egon finished his single plateful and retired upstairs to the lab, taking along all their PKE meters and the two traps the firemen had recovered from the wreckage. Peter's meter was barely intact and Egon's own had short-circuited, but Ray's still functioned and perhaps the readings might hold more than had been apparent that afternoon. The traps were beyond repair but those remains too might hold a clue.

Egon realized the others had joined him only when he reached for his millimeter spanner and the instrument was placed in his hand before his fingers located it. Glancing up, he saw Ray's auburn head bent over one of the traps, meticulously prying apart the twisted metal casing. Peter stood over him, resting a hand on his shoulder but not observing. The psychologist's gaze was focused inward, a rare contemplative expression submerging the sharp humor which usually animated his features. He seemed far older than his years, and in pain, though there were no lines on his face to suggest either.

Janine had given him the scanner. He thanked her, then, when she didn't respond, turned his full attention on her. Looking between Peter and Egon, she seemed unsure who to stand closer to; her glasses were in her hand and her face was blotchy. Before Egon could say her name she started, looked back to him and attempted a polite smile. "You're welcome."

Even that soft reply echoed in the lab's quiet. Peter shook himself once as if shrugging off a blanket, and asked, "Have anything?" His voice too was unusually subdued, barely sounding through the unnatural stillness.

Ray turned his head in a half-hearted negative. Egon sank back onto the lab stool. "Not much. Not any more than we had."

"Which was?" There was an edge to Peter's tone, strained, as if he were fighting something inside.

He had sounded similar on their way from the warehouse. The ride back had been long. They detoured to the Zeddemore apartment, to tell Winston's parents personally; they had gone up to the door together, but when Winston's mother and then father came, Peter was the only one who spoke.

Egon had always had the impression that Winston's father didn't care much for his son's associates, and particularly didn't trust Peter and his too-smooth attitude, but both his mother and father believed what he told them then without question. They let them all in and had Peter relate everything, all he knew of what had occurred. It seemed that Winston's father would get angry several times, but before he did his wife laid a hand over his and he would calm without a word. They cried, during and afterward; the tears in Peter's own eyes that he didn't try to hide might have changed their minds about their son's choice in friends.

They declined the offer of dinner and continued back to the firehall. Peter, driving Ecto, had spoken once to ask if his recounting of what had happened had been accurate; Egon and Ray assured him it had. The question had held that same indistinct quality with which he addressed them now. Egon, for all that he knew Peter Venkman better than he knew himself, could not put a name to what he heard in his friend's voice.

Before he could ask him about it, the telephone trilled. "I'll get that," Janine offered, scrubbing her cheeks dry, and she slipped out the door, bypassing the laboratory phone. Perhaps she knew that if she stayed with them she wouldn't be able to maintain her composure with whoever it was—probably not a client, this late, but it was possible; otherwise it would be the police, or the media at last.

The ringing stopped. Peter clapped Ray on the shoulder, drawing him back from the lab table to request, "Ray, can you go down, see if Janine wants to stay overnight?" Normally Peter would make lewd suggestions about their secretary spending the night and Egon's bed. Not now. "She shouldn't—she can crash on the futon. She shouldn't have to drive back alone."

Janine stayed over at the firehall enough to know how to prepare a place on the couch on her own, but Ray didn't question it, only nodded and departed. When they heard his footsteps on the stairs, Egon turned to Peter. He didn't have to ask, or wait for an explanation of the dismissal. Peter leaned across the table toward him, his voice low but that vague edge sharpened, the emotion behind it now clear. Anger, not Peter's regular annoyances and complaints but a bitter fury. "Do you know what happened?" he demanded as he had before, but Egon winced at the bite in the query now. "What the hell went wrong—why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you—" The anger he could understand, but that it was directed at him—Peter didn't strike blindly, no matter how high his feelings ran; he was too knowledgeable a psychologist to take his own issues out on his friends. Egon had heard rage in his voice before, but never directed at him. It hurt almost as much as his failure. "Peter, I—" "You should've warned us," Peter growled, slamming his open palms down on the table. The dismembered instruments rattled against their casings. "Goddammit, why didn't you mention the traps could overload? If we'd been ready—"

"I didn't know!"

Peter took an involuntary step back at the shout. Egon was no less startled by it, for all that it had come from his own mouth. He took a deep breath and tried again, "We didn't know; neither Ray nor I could have predicted it, or we would have told you. You and Winston—it wasn't supposed to happen, Peter, not like that. The trap fields combined with our proton beams should've been enough to disseminate the demon's ecto-molecular structure into its component particles..."

Blown it to bits—but Peter didn't say so, nor make Egon use good old-fashioned American English as he usually teased. Physicist or not, he understood what they did well enough to follow most of Ray and Egon's plans. That he had not followed this one, that Winston had paid the price, was weighing as heavily on him as it was on Egon; little wonder he sought to place that burden where it properly belonged. "I made a grave miscalculation," Egon said. "My preliminary readings of the demon's strength must have been inaccurate; I should never have suggested—"

"No, you shouldn't have." But the anger was gone from Peter's tone; he might have been reading off a cue-card for all the emotion in that assertion.

Egon shivered. "I didn't know it would turn out this way; neither Ray nor I could've guessed..." But they should have; they should have known, or at the very least hypothesized the danger—he should have insisted on taking the risk, knowing the possible outcome; instead he had allowed his teammate to fall for him.

"No." The word sounded like it was torn from Peter's very soul, truth wrenched from him so forcefully he could barely breathe. "It's not your fault. Not Ray's either." He pushed back the dark hair hanging over his eyes, a normal gesture, but the grim intensity with which he regarded his friend was not. "I didn't accuse you—I shouldn't have sounded like I was. I wasn't, Egon. I didn't mean—I needed to know, but I couldn't ask Ray."

Because Ray would take it as an accusation, even if it hadn't been intended as such. Because Peter had known he couldn't ask what had happened without that anger surfacing, and knew Ray was experiencing enough pain, enough guilt.

Egon felt a heat like anger rising in himself, unexpected and unwanted. He clamped down on it, said evenly, "We must ask Ray, however. I can analyze the scientific aspects of our mistake, but Ray can research the exact nature of this demon, learn why our readings were so far off. Until we had it under the beams, we didn't realize how it was reacting—by the time we understood it was too late to warn you; Winston had already thrown out the trap."

Peter shuddered even as he nodded understanding. "It better not have been just your average demon," he said intensely, then closed his eyes at the stricken look Egon was unable to keep from crossing his face. "No," he told the physicist. "Not because it means you messed up—what'll it do to Ray, if he thinks he should've identified it? He can't know everything we run across, and we know that, but I don't know if he's ready for it yet."

Egon agreed completely, and shared Peter's fears; he could too easily see Ray taking his ignorance as failure, losing confidence and worse, compounding a tragedy already too deep. And yet this comprehension didn't keep his throat from closing up, or his vision clear. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes in vain, swallowed but it didn't dislodge the viscous fluid muffling his whisper, "Winston was my friend as well..."

Something changed in Peter's expression, more life or less, light or darker, Egon couldn't tell, but the iciness in his gaze thawed. His own voice was thick when he replied. "God, Egon, I know. All of ours. I know. It wasn't your fault." He pulled Egon up off the stool and dragged him into a rough hug, his arms tightening almost convulsively around his friend, as if he were afraid Egon would try to avoid it, or that he himself would. "It's no one's fault," he said in the taller man's ear. "Except that demon's, and we're gonna get him. We'll bring him down, Spengs. You're gonna find the way."

It was no order but a promise, a statement of fact that Egon already knew, already understood. And yet in some indefinable way it helped for it to be spoken, made it truer to hear it in more than his mind. "We'll find a way," he replied, and squeezed Peter's shoulders in return before releasing him to turn back to the lab table, back to his science, to seek that solution and lose himself in theory and numbers and facts, where emotion is only an abstract concept and loss a mathematical principle.

 

* * *

Ray awoke before the sun broke over the tops of the skyscrapers, and only one other bed in the bunkroom was occupied. Peter was curled up under his sheet, his eyes squeezed shut and his fists with a death-grip on the blankets even in his sleep. Beside him Egon's bed was neatly made, and across from Ray, Winston's comforter was smoothly spread over the mattress. Neither of them touched, and the reasons for that turned the warm morning air icy.

Needing to move, he got up and headed for the door, passing the little TV set that he and Winston used to watch game shows on, before a brush with a demon took the fun out of it. Now an entertainment more permanently cancelled, and that was so wrong it physically hurt, a squeezing in his chest.

Across the hall in the lab, Ray found Egon stretched out on the couch in the lab, one arm thrown over the back as if he had flopped down without bothering to adjust his position before dropping off. He hadn't even taken off his glasses. Ray walked by him to the table, in the light of day re-examining the equipment and traps and PKE meters, trying as they had the night before to discern how they could have so awfully miscalculated.

In his mind he went over yesterday again and again, recalling every detail, every reading, every glimpse he had gotten of the demon. Why hadn't he recognized it? He had read _Tobin's Spirit Guide_ cover to cover, perused uncounted texts and crumbling manuscripts. A demon that powerful wouldn't have materialized out of thin air; someone must have written something of it, and he should have encountered the record before. He should have known it. The guys were counting on him to know it—Winston had counted on him. Winston had always kidded him when Ray babbled too much about some spirit or another, but he had always listened, and believed him, trusted what he knew.

In his dreams there had been something, the vaguest recollection. White skin, black triangles...he couldn't even remember where he'd seen it. And it hadn't occurred to him at all yesterday, though he should have remembered. His fault.

Ray didn't hear the call for breakfast; he didn't even realize Egon had awoken until the physicist took him by the arm and pulled him downstairs. Janine had pulled together the meal; she didn't even complain about cooking for them. And it was early for Peter to be up, but he said nothing, and Egon didn't tease him about it.

All wrong. The silence had to be broken. "I—" Ray swallowed. "Egon and I have been over the equipment, but we haven't found anything. I think we should go back to the site and see if there's any readings we missed. There might be some residuals...or..." He found himself out of anything more to say.

Egon saved him. "Good idea, Ray. We'll take Ecto-1. I don't foresee any danger, but...Peter, Janine, perhaps you could assist us?"

Ray nodded. While there probably wasn't much they could help with, they all needed to be doing something. Understanding this, Janine smiled a little at Egon but shook her head. "No, I better stay here, someone needs to hold down the fort. You guys pay me to take calls, and there's going to be lots of them." She hesitated, and the pause stretched into a silence before she continued, "Peter, maybe you could help me out? There's already reporters outside, you could talk to them..."

"All right," Peter agreed.

He didn't speak again until they were ready to go, and then he only wished them luck. When they pulled out in Ecto, Peter followed them into the street to face the hoard of media people gathering on their front steps. In the rearview mirror Ray watched the psychologist draw himself up to confront them, his expression, his whole posture shifting to that of a man with a mission, a daunting task nevertheless to be overcome.

He had good reason for it. A demon which had destroyed a building and taken out a Ghostbuster was at large in the city; Peter had to put the right spin on that truth to make people aware of the danger, but not start a panic. He'd do it, of course, and Ray and Egon would do their jobs, and hopefully this demon could be defeated without another casualty. Maybe their last job, because Ray wasn't sure they could be Ghostbusters anymore, with only three. But they had to at least to finish the bust they'd begun.

Upon their return to the firehall Ray and Egon were surprised to see Peter donning his proton pack. Janine answered their questions before they got out of Ecto-1. "We just got a call. The woman said she saw a man in the condemned building next door to her last night. She wouldn't have called us except that she saw the news—the guy was pale, wearing a black mask, and she thought she just imagined his eyes glowing red—"

"The demon," said Egon.

"We should check it out," Ray agreed.

"You guys have your packs, right?" Janine asked. "Peter's got the destabilizer, but this could be dangerous. I could come, be your backup—"

"No," Peter said flatly, climbing into Ecto's back seat and slamming the door without offering an explanation. She opened her mouth to argue, then looked at him through the window and shut it again without speaking.

Ray glanced at Peter and then to Janine. "Call the woman back," he said, "tell her not to go near the other apartment. Get the police to keep people away too, until we've investigated."

"All right," Janine said. "But—be careful, guys." She hardened her voice. "I'll make you sorry otherwise."

"Understood," Egon replied.

 

* * *

The apartment building was condemned with good reason, an ancient tenement built poorly and worsened by years of neglect and abuse. Sunlight streamed through cracked windows over cobwebs and electrical wiring hanging loose from the crumbling plaster ceiling. Their boots swirled the dust coating the cracked hallway floor. Outside, the police, having opened the padlock over the main door, now were occupied with controlling the developing crowd. Ray hoped people listened; if the demon were really here, it would be dangerous for anyone to be inside. That included them, but he didn't really think of that except as a logical proposition.

His blood was humming as it always did on a bust, but without the thrill that usually accompanied the energy. Only two sets of footsteps beside him, two shadows in his peripheral vision, and he unconsciously kept listening for the third that was missing. All wrong.

"It's here," Egon murmured.

Ray jumped, but not with the surge of eager interest that should have come. It took an effort it shouldn't have to ask, "Where?"

"Hard to localize," the physicist reported. "Probably overhead."

Peter tilted his head back, as if he could see through the ceiling to their target. "Why is it here?"

"Maybe recruiting," Ray ventured. He had pondered it on the drive over, trying to ignore the empty seat beside Peter where Winston should have been riding shotgun. "The readings we got this morning show it didn't come in at the warehouse—there wasn't any sign of a dimensional tear. And none of the ghosts seemed to be centered there, either."

"Judging by the readings," Egon picked up, "they were from elsewhere in the city and somehow were gathered or summoned by the demon. I'm registering two Class Threes in this building. Since we dispersed its army, it might be attempting to reassemble it."

"If he hasn't already," Ray said. "So...what do we do?"

There was an instant's delay; then Egon pointed to the destabilizer in Peter's hands. "We don't know how effective it will be, but we should at least attempt it."

"What if it blows up, too?" Peter's eyes were still on the ceiling; his soft voice held none of its normal smart inflection.

"We won't open a trap unless it appears adequate," Egon said, after another uncertain pause. "The destabilization field combined with two proton streams may prove enough. If we can ambush the demon we might conceivably catch it off-guard, and I can use the destabilizer—"

Peter shifted his arms to grip the weapon closer. "I've got it covered."

"We've got to find it first," remarked Ray. "Maybe we should split up—" He stopped. No matter how they divided now, someone would be alone, unprotected. Maybe if he went by himself—if he could get a better look at the demon, he might identify it. "I'll take the third floor." It had been spotted up there, after all.

He maneuvered through the ropes cordoning off the stairway, but before he mounted the first step Peter whisked past him to take the lead. Ray looked back to Egon, now directly behind him. The physicist shrugged, and together they climbed the creaking stairs, pausing at the second landing for Egon to check the meter. "I believe it is on the next floor," he reported in an undertone, "as well as the two ghosts."

"So let's get it." Peter's voice was flat. "You got the—" He broke off, restarted again just as abruptly, "You got the trap, ready to take it on?"

Ray nodded, wondering at that brief hesitation. The thoughtful set of Egon's mouth proved he had noted it as well, though aloud he only murmured, "I am prepared."

They twisted through the rope barricade guarding the next flight and ascended with all due haste and caution. These stairs were even more rickety than the first set, creaking treacherously with every step they took; they went single-file to avoid putting too much weight on any single rotting board, Peter leading. At the top they stopped again, listened for an instant. Egon raised his meter and nodded once, pointing a long index finger toward the hallway, then gestured a countdown.

On three they sprang out. Ray's finger was over the trigger of the thrower but he didn't fire immediately, taking in the long shadowed hall, the closed doors, and the demon at the other end, white-faced, black-haired, scarlet-eyed.

Before Peter could activate the destabilizer, two shadows coalesced into solid forms and launched toward them, lanky arms outstretched, fanged mouths gaping in enraged howls. Ray aimed for one ghost and triggered his thrower; Egon's proton stream lashed out to wrap around the other. The first dodged Ray's attack and swooped toward Peter, who rolled under the assault, coming up behind it as Ray swept the beam down on the phantom.

Caught in the proton streams, the true shapes of the spirits were illuminated, their legs trailing into misty nothingness, their upper quarters translucent and distorted but recognizably human. Classic Class Fours, both males by appearance, one in what looked to be a military uniform, the other's apparel indistinct. They shrieked in octaves opera sopranos would be proud to hit, but Ray could make out words in the protesting screams, "No! We will not be bound, by him or you!"

Peter's trap clattered out, adding to the brilliance. "Wait!" Ray yelled. "Shut the trap!"

It closed, the ghosts still free, and Ray snapped off his thrower. To the ghosts writhing in Egon's stream, he shouted, "Do you obey the demon?"

"No!" the uniformed ghost screeched. "We should obey a commander, but he ordered us to follow him to Hell!"

The other stream flicked off, leaving a dark quiet in the energy's wake. "What'd he want you to do?" Ray demanded breathlessly.

The ghost's pointed-eared head twisted from side to side, staring at their weapons. "We won't be taken prisoner!" he yowled, and vanished through ceiling, pursued by his associate. Egon's proton stream flashed out a split second too late to capture them.

"Son of a bitch!" Peter swore. Not at that near hit, however; Ray only then realized that the other end of the hallway was empty, the demon gone.

"Peter!" At Egon's cry Ray spun in time to see Peter swing around the corner and plunge down the stairs. Stowing his thrower, Egon took off after him; Ray grabbed the trap and followed. Even carrying the destabilizer, Peter kept in the lead, but they were hot on his heels until the landing. On the first step down the plank gave way under Ray's boot, pitching him into Egon; they tumbled down to the second floor, bruised and winded. Struggling to his feet, pack tangled in the rope barricade, Ray heard the distinctive hum of the destabilizer below.

It went silent. "Peter!" Ray shouted. Egon was already pounding downstairs. Snapping the ropes as he yanked himself free, Ray vaulted the flight in a two leaps, crashing out onto the ground floor corridor.

Peter was sprawled on his back a few feet from the stairwell, his head against the wall. Egon had made it to his side and was gasping his name. Of the demon there was no sign.

"Egon?" Ray breathed, hurrying over. "Egon, is he—" It couldn't be, he couldn't be, he couldn't—

The prone man groaned, and Ray felt his heart start beating again. Peter struggled to sit up, assisted by Egon's arm around his shoulders, and raspily demanded, "How long was I out?"

"Only a moment," Egon assured him, "we were right behind you—"

"The demon—"

Ray fumbled for his meter. "I'm not picking it up."

Egon, still propping up Peter, examined his own instrument and frowned. "It shouldn't have moved out of range so quickly—"

"We lost it." Peter shoved Egon's arm aside. "Goddammit, I lost it!" Leaning his shoulder against the wall, he rocked to his knees, then dragged himself to his feet. "Did it teleport or something?"

"I'm not reading—"

"Then it's gotta still be around. We'll find it."

With a determined frown he pushed away from the wall. Egon and Ray each caught an arm when he staggered, Ray taking the destabilizer slung over his shoulder as Egon admonished, "We'll find it, but not immediately. You need medical attention; you likely have a concussion—"

"I'm fine." Peter pulled himself straight; the display might have been convincing if Ray hadn't felt the hand tightening around his arm to reinforce his balance. "It just knocked me down."

"Did you get it with the destabilizer?" Ray asked quietly, to distract him from his determination if nothing else. "What'd it do?"

"I got it." Peter's mouth tightened. "It didn't notice. Hit me before I could get the trap or the thrower." He strode forward, disregarding the unsteadiness of his legs.

Egon's hand clamping around his arm was harder to ignore. "Peter, it's gone," the physicist said evenly. "We'd be registering it if it were still in the area. And if the destabilizer was indeed ineffective—"

"It was," Peter snapped, and then he sank back, one hand splayed against the wall for support. "By itself—if I could've gotten the thrower out..." His voice was only a hair above inaudible.

"Peter," Egon started to argue against the guilt in that whisper.

"You missed it, Egon," Peter snapped, his head whipping around to confront them with dark glittering eyes. "When I got here, it was right where you're standing. I was that close; I could've seen the whites in its eyes, if it had had any. I could've zapped it but good. And I froze."

"You were surprised—"

"I was dumbstruck—no, just dumb. I knew it would be here trying to get away; I knew what to expect, what to do and then I didn't. Not soon enough."

"Maybe it was the demon," Ray murmured. "It might be able to influence—"

"Maybe." He shook his head. "Thanks, Ray. But it didn't feel like that. I just looked it in the eyes and locked up." Removing his hand from the wall, he pressed it to his forehead, swaying slightly.

Ray slipped an arm around his back, felt Peter tense, then shift some of his weight onto him with a self-deprecating grimace. "It might still have been the demon," the occultist insisted. "A subconscious effect, or an instinctive fear response; some entities can induce them. We don't know much about this one, but we know it's powerful..." He kept up the chatter as they walked outside, knowing he had to keep Peter distracted as long as possible, hopefully at least until they made it to the hospital. Egon was right; he had been briefly unconscious, and almost definitely had a concussion, especially considering his dizziness. Though Ray couldn't help but worry that it might be more than that, some other effect of the demon they were unaware of. They knew next to nothing of this being, but if it hadn't even reacted to the destabilizer...

Peter shouldn't have had to take it on alone. They should have been with him, right behind him; they never should have been separated.

And Peter shouldn't have that anger in his voice, in his expression. Not directed at Ray or Egon; not even at the demon, but at himself, all aimed internally, for something he hadn't been able to help. It was so unusual, not like Peter at all, and Ray knew it was over more than just that momentary freeze. He couldn't see clearly into his friend's depths, but what he could make out was upsetting, different from anger or grief, like guilt but for what he couldn't tell, and therefore couldn't alleviate.

Wrong, as wrong as Egon taking Ecto's wheel, as wrong as the empty seat beside him. Wrong as the absence of the warm voice ordering Pete to chill while Peter made a big deal over nothing and Egon and Ray fussed over him. Now they all were silent, except in Ray's memory, where a thousand past conversations played out in raucous four-part harmony, with no voices missing.

 

* * *

He couldn't see, but he could feel the shadows curling over him, a monstrous serpent wrapping around his chest, squeezing out his breath. A whisper of white, a brush of black, a taste of scarlet burning through him. Blindly he flailed against its icy presence, but if any of his blows struck home they did nothing.

He had briefly regained his vision, and what he had seen had been even worse than the void. His teammates, their faces drawn and dark and resolute, battling two ghosts, and he had been unable to help them, unable even to call out to them. Then he had seen Peter go down, and he couldn't tell if he were still moving or not. Like a dream, trapped before images he couldn't affect or react to. Except here, and here his protests were impotent—though heard. He knew they were heard, because he felt the creature's pleasure as it drank up his fear and anger, like a cat lapping at a bowl of milk.

That was why it showed him what it did. As much as it might enjoy playing with his friends, it liked devouring from him even more. He couldn't see it but he knew it was there, surrounding him, filling the darkness it had trapped him within. In this lightless place, invisible, it wasn't like it had appeared in the warehouse. Ghosts could sometimes change shape, he knew; the coldness brushing against him bore no resemblance to human form or flesh.

In his ears he felt the icy flicker of a voice, too dangerous to be ignored, almost too low to be understood. "You hurt me. You should not have. I had expected less of you."

"We'll destroy you!" He thought he shouted it but he didn't hear his voice, couldn't feel it in his throat.

A low rumble vibrated against him—it might have been a growl, or a laugh. "You will try. That I expect. You are better opponents than I would have hoped. You tested the mettle of my army well—but too well. I must regain it. I need you to do so."

It needed him? When it had survived an explosion that had taken out a warehouse, would have taken out him if the demon hadn't stolen him away. The guys must know, since there wouldn't have been a body. He just had to hold on; they'd be coming for him. He hoped.

He couldn't help but jump at the touch of sandpaper-like coils scraping past his fingers, but he refused to let it frighten him. The flashes it showed him, however, set his heart racing, despite his best efforts. How bad had the ghosts' assault been; how seriously was Pete hurt? He had hit the wall hard...."I won't help you!" There—he almost heard it, the faintest rasp of his own voice through the monster's bulk.

"Why?" The words came clearly, soft and lethal; they sliced across his cheeks like blades. "I am not your devil. I am not Satan, tricking for your soul. I offer you a simple bargain. You serve me, and I give you power."

"Power?" He said nothing, and yet the question hung spoken in the frozen air.

"I make you lord. I make you king, master, general; commander of my soldiers. You will lead them to victory in a war greater than you could fathom, beyond anything you have fought before."

It wasn't a deal he ever would have taken, ever would have desired. "What if I won't?"

"Then you are dust." There was no anger; it was not threatening but stating a truth that hardly concerned it, if a demon's emotions can be understood. "And everything you are is past."

The scaly tip of something long and sleek slid over his leg and vanished into the void. He grabbed for it but his hand touched nothing—not even his own fingers closing together. Then he was alone in darkness, or maybe it was emptiness, and he was not at all.

 

* * *

Peter awoke that morning from dreams of utter blackness, populated by skunk-striped demons and tiny smooth-skinned dragons with ruby-eyes. He shook his head clear and for an instant thought it had all been a nightmare, the past few days a subconscious might-have-been that hadn't.

He looked across the bunkroom to the empty bed opposite his. Still real. Falling back against the pillow he shut his eyes again. No headache at least, not even a trace of the minor concussion the emergency room doctor had said he might have. Only might, but Egon and Ray had taken no chances; they had returned to the firehall without searching further for the demon they insisted had vanished, leaving nary a residue of its power.

Even with eyes closed sleep wouldn't come. Resignedly Peter arose and headed downstairs to the kitchen. Sunday brunch required better than cereal or toast. Usually Winston would cook something, his mother's blueberry pancakes, if the berries were in season. Had they ever gotten him to write down the recipe?

They needed to eat. Peter took a brief inventory of the groceries and settled on waffles. A symbolization of his mental state, balanced in limbo, striving neither one way or another. He wasn't used to it. Took more effort to vacillate than it did to choose.

Janine, up from her second night on the couch, joined him when he was pouring the first waffle on the iron. Seeing Peter's activity, she set to cutting fruit for a salad. Egon came down in time to set the table, taking the chore without being asked. Beyond the low 'good mornings' little was said; the quiet sat uncomfortably, but Peter couldn't break it, and the others didn't protest.

Atypically Ray was the last to wake, but he arrived with a brightness in his eyes too lacking of late. It wasn't his usual sparkle, more a fiery glitter, but the animation in his step brought some life back to Peter's. "I remembered something," the occultist announced on the threshold, without taking a seat. "I was dreaming and when I got up I remembered it—I think I know what the demon is. I need to find some books—"

He seemed inclined to bound out the door that instant. "Eat," Egon ordered before he did so. "You don't research nearly as thoroughly when you're hungry."

Blinking at the fork thrust at him, Ray took a place and drowned a waffle in syrup before methodically wolfing it down. "Slow up," Peter said, "I worked my fingers to the bone to prepare this feast, and you're not even going to taste it?" Only a reiteration of complaints made a thousand times before, but it won a subdued smile from Ray. Peter waited to see that before pressing, "So what's this demon? What's it doing, why'd—"

Ray was shaking his head. "I don't remember, I gotta look it up. It might not even be—I don't know, I have to check." He polished off the last bite, grabbed a glass of orange juice and downed it in one swallow. "I'll be back later, if I find anything..."

"You'll tell us," Egon completed.

Peter slid his chair out of Ray's path before he could be bowled over, snagged Ray's arm in passing. "Find something good, Tex. Find us something to trash this bastard." Hurt him as badly as he's hurt us, though he doubted it were possible. Demons didn't have hearts that could be torn; they didn't always have blood, but he wanted this one to bleed, white and black and scarlet ichor. It wouldn't fill the missing place at the table, but it would perhaps return to him a part of what he'd lost, or at least keep him from losing any more. Everything was slipping through his fingers; he could at least hold onto that, his need to destroy this monster, even if there were nothing else.

 

* * *

Ray called once to say he wouldn't be back for dinner, the excitement with which he had left again subdued. He didn't have to tell them he had found nothing useful; that was all too clear in his low, restrained tone. When Ray got hold of something interesting, he was all but unintelligible in his haste to relate it. Egon longed to have to tell him to slow down.

Though his research might have been unsuccessful, he still didn't arrive back until well after nine. Upon returning to the firehall he immediately headed up to the lab, and observed Egon working before the lab table, testing one of the traps with the PKE meter for the fifth time.

"Where's everybody?" Ray asked.

The physicist glanced up from the display, adjusting his glasses. "I'm right here."

"I know. Where's Peter? Where's Janine?"

"Janine went back to her apartment. She mentioned concern over losing yet another set of goldfish," Egon explained, turning back to his equipment. "Peter went out."

"Went out?" Ray waited a moment for an clarification which didn't come, then joined the physicist by the table. "Where'd he go?"

"I don't know." Egon deliberately kept his focus on the meter.

"You don't know?" It was difficult not to react to the alarm that flared in Ray's voice. "Why not? Didn't he tell you? Did he say anything? Was he going after the demon? Did you try to stop him? Why didn't—"

"He wasn't going after the demon, Ray. Peter is impetuous, but not unwisely brave or foolish." Egon paused. "Nor did he take a pack, a trap, or a meter; I verified it. I conjectured from his attire he was going to a club."

"He didn't tell you where, though?" Only slightly mollified, Ray perched on one of the lab stools, his attention still on the physicist. "Peter doesn't usually go out, not when we're in the middle of something."

"On the contrary," Egon corrected, "I can recall several instances when he has made a date in the middle of a bust—"

"He makes dates, but he doesn't go on them. Not when there's something like this."

"What did you find?" Egon immediately asked, preferring the change of topic. "Anything about the demon at all?"

Ray sighed. "Not much. I think I have a name for it—"

"A name?" Egon hadn't even hoped for that much.

"Maybe...but if it's right..."

At Ray's too-quiet words Egon lifted his head to regard his friend directly. The occultist's expression matched his voice, a grimness striking in his warm hazel eyes, because it was so rare. While Ray was uncomfortable with certain situations in regular life, few supernatural aspects of the world intimidated him. A demon that could trouble him to this extent must be bad.

"It took me forever to get this much," he said. "None of the standard sources have anything, but I finally found what I remembered in the archives of Columbia's medieval department. It's a thirteenth century manuscript written by a monk, it's referenced in Tobin once—they don't even have the original, that's in Spain. I got copies, a friend of mine works there, we trade comics—anyway. Anzola—that's the monk—was an alchemist, and he wrote kind of a monograph on what he called Hell's Crossroads. It wasn't Hell—he thought the Netherworld was Hell, as far as I can tell. Hell's Crossroads is different; it's a nexus."

"A junction between dimensions," Egon murmured. "If Mallory's hypothesis holds..." The space-time continuum of such a place would be stretched thin, a fabric so fragile it constantly tore in cross-rips leading to a multitude of dimensions. Not exactly a world in itself, but a gateway into potentially infinite universes.

"Yes," agreed Ray, "but if Anzola was right, Hell's Crossroads is old, as old as our universe or older. Long enough to have developed its own structure, or maybe it picked one up from other worlds. Things live there—Anzola describes a whole classification of demons. Not devils, exactly, but he thought they were evil, and he particularly mentions one with eyes like embers, whose symbol is two black triangles on a white ground. He's called Geddon. I think that's the demon we're fighting."

Ray put his elbows on his knees, his hands clasping and unclasping in front of him. "Geddon would want an army. I'm checking on that, too, I called a couple military places to see if I could learn more about those ghosts we saw yesterday, and something else...one looked like he was in a uniform, did you see? And he said something about obeying a commander—I think he might have been a soldier's ghost."

"Geddon may be recruiting former soldiers for his cause? That's an excellent hypothesis."

Under other circumstances Ray might have glowed with the praise; he respected Egon as much as the physicist respected him, and took such things to heart. Now he only shrugged, his mind clearly elsewhere. Also unusual, for Ray to be distracted from a recent investigation. "I though it made sense. Egon, have you compared the readings we took yesterday with the ones at the warehouse?"

Egon nodded. "There's no correlation."

"So they're different ghosts, not the ones that attacked us there?" Ray crossed his arms over his chest as if cold. "I was afraid of that. If he's trying to get new soldiers, he might already have his old army back together."

"Or maybe they were too widely scattered to be recovered," Egon suggested.

"Maybe." Ray didn't sound convinced.

"Ray, what else did you find?" His hand hovering over the meter's controls, the physicist turned to his colleague again. "How much do you know about this Geddon?"

"Nothing useful." Ray stood. "Not yet, I still have to translate a lot of it. The Latin's pretty crazy and the handwriting's even worse. And we can't do anything until Peter gets back anyway."

"That probably won't be for some time yet."

"Did he say he'd be out late?" When Egon didn't answer Ray quietly asked, "Egon? Did you...fight, or something? Was he upset when he left?"

"I don't know." Shoving the meter back, Egon planted his fists where it had laid and stared at his knuckles instead. "He is not always as open about his feelings as he might imply."

"I know, but..." Ray put a hand on the physicist's knotted shoulder, not tentatively but firmly. "That's never stopped you, Egon. As long as I've known you and Peter, you always knew what each other was thinking and feeling. I do too, now, mostly, though it took me a while to learn. Now, though—something's wrong but I can't tell what."

"Everything's wrong." Egon relaxed his fists and spread his hands open with conscious effort, as if each muscle in his fingers had to be individually induced to move. "It was very...quiet in the lab, after Peter left."

Though he knew the physicist preferred quiet when working, Ray nodded sympathetically. "I'm sorry. It must be lonely."

Egon drew a breath and heard it rattle in his throat. "I'm accustomed—Winston didn't often assist me, but he would be in here all the same, reading, playing chess with the computer, or with me if an experiment was going slowly..."

"Trying to teach Slimer checkers," Ray said, and though Egon couldn't see his face it sounded like he might be smiling. "Or helping Peter drag us downstairs to watch The Maltese Falcon. Or talking about ghosts and religion and the job..."

"Yes." Egon almost smiled himself, recalling more than one sleepless night lost to philosophical debates. Winston didn't have their collegiate experience, but his own experiences had more than made up for it, and he had enough confidence in his opinions to take on his teammates and sway them to his side on more than once occasion.

No more. Egon closed his eyes, half-formed smile dropping away. He felt Ray's hand tighten around his shoulder as the occultist said, "Egon, we can't let Peter...I know it's hurting all of us, but we can't let it do this.

"I don't know if we can be Ghostbusters anymore, but we have to still be friends, we have to be. And I..." His breath caught. "I'm not Winston. He'd always make us be a team. He'd be yelling at us now. I'm not a psychologist like Peter, and I'm not you, Egon, Peter won't listen to me the same way—"

"He would listen," Egon corrected, alarmed, twisting around to face him. "Raymond, you are who you are, and that is never less than what you need to be. And I'm a fool—"

"No, you're not." Ray took advantage of the change in position to put his arms around Egon and squeeze briefly. Resting his forehead against his friend's solid shoulder, Egon embraced him in return, holding on as Ray said, "It just hurts so much, we're not thinking—I wish he were still here. I wish we hadn't gone on that bust, I wish he hadn't...but..." Egon felt him shudder, exhale. "You'll talk to Peter?"

Egon nodded, forced his voice to function. "I'll talk to him. Tonight, when he returns."

"Good." Pulling back, Ray attempted to smile, unselfconsciously wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Thank you."

"Thank you, Ray. For thinking, even when I am not, with your mind and your heart." Egon gripped his arms. "Go to bed," he requested, seeing the darkness under his eyes and knowing it was from more than mourning. "I will endeavor..."

"Just talk to him, Egon. I know he'll listen. And tomorrow I'll tell you what I found out and you can tell us what you've learned, and we can figure out what to do next." He hugged Egon again. "I need to go to bed now. Good night, Egon."

Egon, watching him leave, was struck with the terrible realization that it might have been Ray—that next time, it might be. Losing Winston was a blow he could hardly bear; to lose Ray...

Still friends, but maybe not Ghostbusters anymore, Ray had said. Although Egon could not conceive of anything as scientifically stimulating as their job, he found himself contemplating the possible price of his chosen career in a way he had few times before. And perhaps it wasn't worth it. Nothing could be.

He attempted to return to his examination of the trap, but the lab's silence...its loneliness was too great. Even Slimer was absent, having fled when he heard the news to grieve in his own fashion; Ray had had no success in calling him away from the dumpster in the alley next door.

In that emptiness Egon couldn't concentrate. Deactivating his equipment for the night, he left the laboratory. For several minutes he stood in the bedroom doorway, listening to Ray's soft, steady breathing; then he went down to the kitchen, made himself some cocoa and sat at the table. One of Peter's Dewey LaMort novels was on the counter from last week; Egon picked it up and, after briefly pondering how many monkeys had joined forces to produce such prose, lost himself in the rough and ready world of the Old West.

He was jarred from the dusty streets of Absolution by the front door rattling. A glance at the clock confirmed the time; past midnight, late by ordinary reckoning, perhaps, but early for Peter to turn in. Setting the book down on the table, Egon stood and waited. In the quiet he heard him stumble on the first stair, and when his friend arrived at the top Egon was frowning slightly. Peter acknowledged him without any sign of surprise or interest; the kitchen light had probably given him forewarning. Tossing his sports jacket over the closest chair, he nodded curtly with a muttered, "G'night, Spengs," and headed for the door.

It was not enough for anyone to have noticed, generally, but Egon had known Peter for the better part of two decades, including several years of college and fraternity life. Though he had not seen it for some time, he recognized the minute hesitation in his pace, and could not help but ask, "How much have you had to drink?"

"Too much." Balanced on the threshold, Peter looked back into the kitchen. Under the bright light his pupils were visibly dilated, but his eyes glittered clear and sharp as fractured crystal. "Don't worry, I caught a cab back before the night got going. Wouldn't embarrass us now on top of everything else."

"That wasn't my concern."

"I know." He stood there undecided for a moment, then continued into the study to flop down on one of the couches.

Egon filled a glass with water and followed, taking a seat beside him. "You should go to bed."

"Not tired." Fumbling for the remote, Peter switched on the television and began flipping through channels, blinking at every flicker.

"Here, then." Egon pushed the glass into his hand. "We do not need you hung over from alcoholic dehydration tomorrow."

Taking the glass, Peter obediently drank the water, without so much as rolling his eyes. Nor did he comment when Egon reached past him and turned off the television, though his gaze lingered on the dark screen. Egon, who had seen his friend in almost every situation, and could usually interpret his mood no matter his attitude or the circumstances, found himself at a loss. Floundering, he fell back on the basics. "What's wrong?"

"What's right?"

The response came as quickly his own reply to Ray. Changing tactics slightly, still searching for the right approach, he murmured, "Peter, this isn't like you."

Something flashed across Peter's face; it might have been anger but probably wasn't, given the flat tone of his reply. "No," he agreed. "I don't feel much like me right now. Me isn't something I'm really interested in being. Maybe it's time for a change. How 'bout we go back to the old uniforms? Like the old days. Just the three of us." He closed his eyes. "God. I'm not gonna get used to that again, ever."

"Nor I," Egon said softly.

The couch springs shifted as Peter rocked forward, rolling the empty glass between his palms. "What happened, Egon?"

"It was an accident." Egon wondered if his words sounded as false as they felt, for all their logic. "We miscalculated the demon's power; he is too strong to trap, I believe, but we had no way of knowing—"

"No!" Peter's apathy vanished like mist in the heart of the sun. "That's not it," he shouted, "that's not why he went, that's not why he was there, why the demon grabbed him before everything blew! You were there, you heard. You know, Ray knows, I know—I did it!" Half rising as if pulled upward by the force of his own rage, he flung the glass at the wall.

Its thick base thudded against the plaster without shattering; then it chipped on the wooden floor with a crystalline crack. Peter smiled crookedly, sinking back on the couch. "Don't make 'em like they used to."

The comment didn't register, nor the breaking glass; Egon's ears were still ringing with the accusation. "Peter, it was not you—"

The other man tensed, relaxed again and let his head fall back, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. "Why'd he do it, Egon? We all wanted to. It should've been me. I was gonna go but he sounded sure he could do it, and I wasn't sure I could...if I'd've known I would've gone. If I'd known what would happen I'd've gone, you know that?"

"Yes." One of Egon's hands reached out of its own accord to close over Peter's wrist. "It wasn't your fault. You honestly believed he would succeed, as Winston believed. We could not have predicted—"

"Yeah, he thought he'd do it," Peter said. "And he was fighting with us to go, but he wasn't going to, not until I said he should. Why the hell did he listen to me? You all did. I remember. We were all arguing and then I said Winston should be the lucky one and you all shut up. Why'd you listen to me?"

"Because we trust your judgment," Egon told him honestly, having no other ready response. "Because a decision had to be made and you made it."

"And Winston died. See how far trust gets you nowadays."

"It was not your fault." Peter might be in no state of mind to listen to him at the moment, but there had to be a way to penetrate that wall of guilt, before he built it any thicker. This wasn't his way either, Egon thought with a tinge of desperation. The psychologist was not one to shoulder responsibilities not his. "It was an accident; it was the demon. You didn't make Winston take that trap; he offered to, he agreed to—"

"But I said he could go, and he did," Peter shot back. "And I told him to throw out the trap, which is why everything blew—don't tell me I didn't know what it would do. So I didn't, doesn't matter, I still told him to do it. Maybe if I hadn't—"

"Maybe if you hadn't, he would've been smart enough to figure out the logical course of action and thrown out the trap regardless," snapped Egon. "Winston did not act entirely at your command, after all. He possessed some modicum of free will, or perhaps you should be held accountable for that as well?"

He flinched at the harshness of his words as soon as he said them, but the corner of Peter's mouth quirked up. "Even ticked you off—doing well tonight, aren't I."

He shoved himself to his feet; Egon stood in time to catch his arm when he swayed. Peter shook off the support and drew himself up with an annoyed grimace, admitting, "Maybe you're right. Time to turn in. Thanks for the water, Egon."

The physicist nodded and followed his friend upstairs without a word, holding himself back with effort when Peter stumbled again on the steps. Egon stayed close to catch him should he trip, but knew assistance would not be appreciated for anything less. They made it up without incident, and Peter sat on his bed without bothering to do more than kick off his shoes.

He did not lie down, however, and Egon tracked his gaze to his night stand, where the dim light from the hall glinted on round lenses. Lifting the binoculars, the physicist twined the braided cord around his fingers, and, mindful of Ray's sleep, softly inquired, "Where did these come from?"

"Beats me." Peter's drooping shoulders lifted and fell in a half-hearted shrug. "Found 'em with Zed's stuff this afternoon. Didn't even know he had 'em. Damn, Egon, how many years did we know Winston? He's lived with us all this time and we don't even know why he owned a lousy pair of binoculars."

Actually the pair appeared to be of high quality, but his point was well-taken. "Perhaps Ray—" Egon began.

"Maybe," Peter mumbled. "Doesn't matter anyway. When his parents called today I almost asked 'em. But it wouldn't matter, and what'd they say? Our son's dead and you're worried about this?"

"His parents called?" Egon hadn't known.

"Yeah, this evening, before I left. I handled it. They wanted some stuff...about the funeral, the will. He's got one, you know." Egon nodded; Winston had shown the document to them some time ago. They all were included. "That's gotta be read, and then the funeral, they want it soon, but with this demon...God, we should be helping them with all this, but...they said they understand. They're keeping it together, I think. It's hitting them hard but they'll pull through...don't even think his dad wants us arrested anymore. His mom wants us to be the pallbearers."

"What did you tell her?"

"Yes, I told her yes. What was I supposed to do?" Levering his legs up onto the bed, Peter slumped back against the pillow, trying to yank his twisted blankets loose. "We owe them, Egon. We never can pay 'em back, not for this."

Not for what Winston's parents had had taken from them, no. Anymore than it would be possible to receive a full recompense themselves. But at least they could offer the smaller, lesser things, and accept them as well. "Ray believes he has identified the demon," Egon said.

"What?" Peter's eyes snapped wide open, reflecting like a cat's in the low light. He struggled up again, demanding, "Should've told me sooner, we could—"

Taking him by the shoulders, Egon forced him to sit again. "It can wait until morning. Ray is asleep now, and it's unclear if what he found will be of any help as it is. And you are in no condition to battle a demon regardless. Go to sleep, and tomorrow we can rationally examine the full situation."

For a moment he wasn't sure his logic would prevail; then Peter sank back against the mattress. "Sounds like a plan," he murmured. "You call the shots, Egon. I'll listen. Tomorrow, then." He shut his eyes again, letting his head fall to the side.

Having learned to be wary when Peter abruptly acquiesced to anything, Egon stood watching him for several minutes, long enough for Peter's breathing to slow into even snores, and then several minutes after that. Considering his slight inebriation, Egon thought it unlikely that he could fake rest without actually giving into sleep. Though usually an active sleeper, he now lay still as the proverbial log, probably due to a combination of alcohol and sheer exhaustion, emotional as much as physical. His blankets were still bunched at the foot of the bed, having resisted his efforts to unsnarl them. Carefully Egon freed the covers and spread them over his sleeping friend.

Or perhaps not sleeping after all, because when Egon bent to tuck the corners to prevent them from being thrown aside later, Peter shifted toward him. He pulled the blanket closer with the unconscious clutching motions of a man asleep, but his whisper, though quiet, was distinct. "Sorry, Egon...don't mean to be..."

His voice trailed off. Egon shook his head, assured him, "It's all right, Peter. You aren't. Go to sleep, please. It will be better in the morning."

He placed his hand on Peter's forehead, smoothing back the tangled dark hair; his friend stilled at the touch, sinking deeper into slumber. Egon sighed, feeling some of the tension leave his own body. Not the best, perhaps, next morning; that was an impossibility. But better. And that was more than he would have hoped for this evening.

 

* * *

In the darkness Winston waited. The demon would return, he knew that much. But when, and how long, and why... He strained his eyes but he saw nothing; he listened until his ears ached from the silence, but there was nothing to hear. No way of knowing where he was, cut off from everything. He didn't even know if he were sitting or standing; if he were resting on anything his legs had long gone numb. There was no feeling from them at all.

The guys would be coming for him. He tried to hold onto that hope, but it slipped further away with every minute gone by in this void.

It had occurred to him some time ago—an hour? A day?—that he had no positive proof that he _had_ survived the blast that had sent him here. He had gone through enough Christian training and ghosts in his day to know that death didn't necessarily mean the end of it all.

If he hadn't survived...well, shit, this was one lousy excuse for an afterlife.

Shame he hadn't taken the demon out with him—or maybe he had; that could be why it was still hanging around. Stuck together for eternity. It could be worse. He spent a couple minutes pondering just how it could be. If the guys were here with him...

That would be worse. Not for him, maybe, but everyone else. Ostensibly he and his teammates were in the Ghostbusting biz for the money, and the fame, and out of scientific curiosity, but Winston understood the reasons beyond that, the ones they never talked about because they never had to. He had known since they had gone up against Gozer and almost gone out, for the sake of the world. It wasn't a big hero thing, even; it was pretty simple. They busted because somebody had to.

And if he had paid the price for that, it was worth it. His duty, his honor. Somebody had had to do it, take out that demon, or they all would have gone down. Winston never thought of himself as expendable, or unnecessary; he knew he was part of the team. But if it had to be one of them...might as well be him. Egon or Ray—couldn't bust ghosts without their gadgets, without Egon's theoretical knowledge, without Ray's facility to build anything and everything. They needed Egon's logic, to work out all the complexities of the supernatural; they needed Ray's enthusiasm, for the occult and everything else, to keep them informed and to keep them going when nothing else would.

And Peter. Pete acted like he had the most important jobs of all, namely writing up the bills and talking to the press, but that didn't quite cover the fact that the team wouldn't exist without him. They certainly wouldn't be busting ghosts professionally. Dr. Venkman had turned it into a viable business—though that was more luck than ability, his talent for balancing the books aside. But Peter's role went deeper. They weren't a military unit; they had no commander. But he was the leader all the same, the one who made the fastest decisions in the tightest spots. When Egon or Ray devised a plan, they asked for Peter's approval, often without even noticing they did so.

Winston at first had thought it was organized, and had gotten annoyed more than a few times when Pete had ignored questions, let one of his teammates take over without designating authority. He understood how it worked now, though, had for years. Peter might be the leader, but none of them, certainly not Pete, ever acknowledged it. Whoever had an idea or came up with the plan took the floor and ran the operation, usually. But when it came down to the wire, when things got too tense to breathe, they could rely on Peter to see them through it.

It was a crazy system, one that never could've worked with soldiers, but the Ghostbusters weren't the Army. Winston didn't even think they realized it—he knew Peter didn't. Pete was too smart to want that role, that responsibility. He had it all the same, though. When he had said Winston should take the pack to the demon, they all had agreed. And Winston had gone. His offer, his choice, and no regrets. Doing what he had to.

Now if only Peter would see it that way. Winston knew his teammates, well enough to know how they'd take this. If they knew Winston were all right, they'd be working to get him back, come hell or high water. He trusted the three of them over anyone else in the universe, more than his own family, even. They were a team; they'd break whatever rules they had to in order to stay that way.

But if they couldn't...

"Do you tire of this yet?"

Red light flared in the darkness. Two scarlet circles gazed down at him, swaying atop a white-striped viper's body. He felt the coils slide and settle around him, the rustle of leathery wings disturbing the stilled air.

The demon had returned. He didn't struggle against it, facing those bloody orbs solidly. "I can take it if you can."

"But I don't wish to. So I leave." The eyes dipped close, a horn's sharp tip scratching his chin. "Wouldn't you rather be free from this confinement, breathe and speak and walk again?" When he didn't answer the head reared back, a suggestion of fangs glittering through the darkness as the demon hissed, "Join me, join my cause, my army, and you will be invincible. I will make you immortal. You, a short-lived creature, will go on for as long as you please, do whatever you wish, in my or any realm. You could be everywhere and be anything, and you will last forever. You will always be."

"And all I have to do to be that is give up everything I am," he spat. "No deal. I won't bargain with you—I renounce you, Serpent. Go back the Garden and leave me alone!"

His command rang oddly in the silence. Then the creature shook, sleekly muscled body vibrating in the intimation of a chuckle. "I go," it said, and it was gone.

 

* * *

"So what's the deal?"

"This is the deal," Ray said seriously. On the lab table before him lay the photocopies of the manuscripts he had obtained the previous day. His two teammates were gathered at the table around him, Peter looking no less attentive than his friends despite the early hour. His eyes were a little red and he had a death grip on his mug of coffee, but his focus never left Ray. Egon stood on Ray's other side, listening with an intensity in his blue eyes usually reserved for polymatrix mathematic equations.

Having explained a little about Anzola, his research, and the monk's unfortunate demise at the hands of the Inquisition, Ray flipped through the copies and laid out one sheet. The scrawled Latin was illuminated with stark black and white illustrations. A diamond-striped snake wound through the latticework in the margin and at the top were a set of double black triangles, points meeting to form a crude, geometric hourglass.

"The text is about the rankings of the demons in Hell's Crossroads," Ray told them. "The hierarchy Anzola describes is pretty complicated. It's all based on multiples of three, kind of like the circles of Hell in Dante. Only there's twenty-seven circles, and they're not places, they're demonic classifications. The lower the level, the more different species of demons they are, and the more there are, but they're all weaker. The demons at the twenty-seventh rank, there's lots of different kinds, and there might be millions of actual demons. Thousands at least, but they're all around Class Twos or less.

"The demons at the tenth circle are about Class Five, I think, from the way he describes them, and they're about as strong as Slimer. There's thirty different types—species, sort of—and a few hundred of each type. The third circle, there's nine types, and only nine of each. But they're all about as powerful as a major Netherworld demon, like Tolay."

"So what's Geddon?" Peter tapped the page where the black triangles joined. "If he's the one you think our guy is. Is he third circle?"

Ray shook his head. "No. I think he'd have registered as Class Seven if he were, but..."

"The readings we took at the warehouse were of a Class Eight," Egon remarked.

"I know." Ray fingered the dog-eared edge of the copy. "The six races of the second circle should be that powerful. Thunderbirds were from the second circle. But none of the descriptions sound like what we saw. And Geddon does, with the triangles and the black and white markings and red eyes. Anzola wrote this whole page about him.

"Geddon is one of the Three. The first circle." He briefly glanced at his teammates' faces. Peter's expression hadn't altered from that grim, almost bitter resolution; Egon's eyes, however, were dark behind the glasses, shuttered as he grasped the implications of that revelation. Ray sighed. "There's only three demons in the first circle, each different, all incredibly strong. Geddon's powerful enough to travel to this world. He can open a crossrip wherever he wants to go. And he would, if he wanted to—Anzola thought he was doing something on another world, maybe. He doesn't come to this one, at least not for a long time. Anzola couldn't find a recorded incident of his presence here, and I don't know of any records, from anywhere or anytime, that describe a demon that might be Geddon."

"So we're new real estate," Peter growled. "Gotta slam the door in his face before he starts to think about renting."

"It's hardly so simple," murmured Egon.

Ray saw Peter's eyes flash, then turn to him with both pleading and demand. He ducked his head regretfully to avoid that burning gaze. "I wish it was, but it's not," the occultist seconded Egon. "We can't—the destabilizer didn't do anything to Geddon because he's too powerful. If Anzola's right, Geddon's as strong as Gozer. Or even stronger. We couldn't trap him—even if we could, it would overload the containment unit trying to hold him. We can't destroy him; I don't even think crossing the streams would do it."

"No damn way we're just gonna twiddle our thumbs while this thing sits back and gets comfortable here!" Peter exploded. "Is that what you're saying? If he was that all-fire strong, we wouldn't have gotten out of that warehouse at all—none of us would have," he corrected, his volume subsiding but not the fury in his tone. "It's a class eight demon, Egon said so. Not a god. You're wrong about this one, Ray."

"No," Ray contradicted, "I'm right, and I might know why—"

Before he could explain they heard Janine's voice from the stairs. "Guys? You all up? I heard you from downstairs, Dr. V." she said as she approached, stopping at the lab doorway. "Figured if you were awake you all must be." He didn't react to the implied barb and she didn't seem to expect a response, going on immediately, "So you got anything? Oh, Ray, these were on the fax when I came in—from the Perkins army base?"

He had snatched the documents from her before she was done speaking, rifled through the personnel records and tossing them aside until he came up with what he had requested. Then he paused, staring, his eyes widening as he saw the confirmation of what he had guessed, hypothesized, hadn't dared hope.

"Ray?" Peter crouched and retrieved the papers Ray had let fall to the floor. The psychologist blinked at the image on top, an old identification picture with the soldier's name beneath it. "Isn't this the ghost we faced off two days ago, that you tried to chat up?"

"Yeah," Ray agreed, not fully paying attention. "I thought he was a soldier—that doesn't matter. Look!"

He shoved the picture he held at Peter, who blinked at it. "Is that the other ghost—doesn't look like him," but he frowned thoughtfully, trying to place the hawk-nosed, light-haired man in the image.

"You don't—Here." Ray dodged to the table, grabbed a black pen out of the canister and scribbled furiously, darkening the man's light hair, then tracing inky triangles around the eyes. Before he completed his handiwork he heard two sets of breaths catch behind him, turned back to see shocked comprehension on both of his teammates' faces.

Peter yanked the embellished image from his hands, the paper wrinkling as his fingers tightened around it. "Geddon," he said, a whispered hiss.

"Geddon in the warehouse," replied Ray, and the moment he said it Egon's head jerked up, eyes snapping wide, his understanding complete. "That's his face, right? You got a better look than we did. But when you saw him a couple days ago—did he look the same, Peter? You saw him up close—was it the same face, under the black and white?"

Peter stared down at the picture, concentrating, and then he got it, all blood draining from his face as he realized exactly what he had seen. The fax crumpled as his fists closed. "Oh my god—"

"That's why you froze," Ray told him quietly. "You weren't expecting it so you didn't see it, but you noticed it anyway."

"Saw what?" Janine demanded, trying to see the picture over Peter's shoulder.

The psychologist's voice was steady but strained, as if it took all his strength to keep it from shaking. "Janine, call Winston's parents, tell them—" He looked up and met Ray's eyes for a final confirmation. Ray nodded seriously and Peter went on, "Tell them to cancel the funeral."

"What? Why—what's this mean?" Ducking around him, Janine tore the fax sheet from his hands, smoothed it out and scrutinized it. "I don't—"

"I asked my contact in the army about soldiers from New York who had died recently, to figure out who the ghosts might be," Ray said. "I also asked if any higher ranking people in the area bases were missing. That's a general, Richard Levar—last month he went AWOL. But he was the demon, Geddon, the Geddon we met before. The first time.

"Anzola's not very clear about it, but he says something about Geddon going places he doesn't really go—he can be here and there at once. And he also described Geddon as the devourer—here," he pointed at the line in the manuscript, "'he eats of the body and drinks of the soul.' He's a possessor, he can put some of himself into people, and control them. Like Watt, except Geddon changes the appearance of his host even more. Geddon wanted an army, so he took a general, or maybe Levar wanted to be possessed, for the power. Anyway, that's why we could hurt him, and that's why he didn't register as strong as he is—his energies are dampened because they're in a mortal body."

"We injured Levar's body with the proton streams," Egon stated.

Ray nodded. "Geddon could block the streams, but not when he was partially destabilized. He probably wasn't hurt, but his host was. So he took a new one."

"Winston." Peter leaned against the lab table. "The body in the warehouse—"

"Was General Levar's, I think." Ray swallowed. "Maybe if they check out the dental records..."

"Oh God. We gotta let his parents know. Is Winston all right?" Janine breathlessly demanded. "You can get it out, right, like you got Watt out of Peter?"

"Unfortunately," Egon began, "since unlike Watt we don't know Geddon's precise PKE frequency, and given our estimates about the demon's strength—"

"It'll just be a little harder," Ray said firmly. "We might be able to track him now, since we know what we're looking for—that's probably why we lost him before; he's using Winston's biorhythms to cloak himself. When the warehouse blew up he was shielding Winston to keep the blast from hurting him, so we couldn't pick Winston up. But if we scan for combinations we should be able to find them now."

"And we'll get Geddon out," Peter said, quietly but the statement might have been inscribed in stone. "Tell his parents. We're getting Winston back."

 

* * *

The darkness seemed to swallow him forever. Winston had all but given up hope when at last the demon returned. The Ghostbuster stiffened as the coils wrapped around him and the too familiar voice rasped in his ear, "Have you considered your choice?"

"I didn't need to," he said, hoarsely.

"For the third time I offer. Be my general. Command my army, and partake in all the power I will grant you."

"Never."

"Soon I return to my realm, with my army. You I will abandon to this darkness, for eternity."

"You can't," Winston growled, knowing it was true. Even if the guys never came—and they still might; it's not over 'til it's over, not with the Ghostbusters. But even if they didn't rescue him, death would still find him eventually, and free him. No demon, no evil, was stronger than that immutable truth of life.

The serpent laughed. "You think you can be saved from my power? Watch, then. Watch your friends, my would-be enemy, and see what you are forsaking."

And he could see, as he could before, out of the demon's eyes. Above, the haze of city lights faded into a star-specked charcoal sky. Below, yellow lines on rough pavement defined the contours of a parking lot. All around spirits flew, translucent forms glowing against the gray night, shrieking and howling as they whirled by.

Surrounded by a small hurricane of ghosts, three men valiantly stood their ground, back to back, using their proton streams to keep the specters at bay. Winston recognized them immediately, and understood at the same instant that his teammates were stuck. The ghosts were moving too fast to give them time to get out the traps, and there were too many as it were.

He tried to call to them, but of course couldn't voice so much as a whisper. Even as he watched he felt the demon curling around him, squeezing his breath silent. He could do nothing but watch as his friends fought to escape—no. Not escape. They were trying to advance against the storm of spirits. Egon lead them, forcing forward a step at a time while defending against assaults from all side. To his left, Ray wielded his thrower, his enthusiasm vicious in its determination. The destabilizer was slung over his shoulder, but he had no chance to use it. On Spengler's right, Peter lashed his proton stream like a whip, scything through the wailing ghosts, his expression as determined as Ray's but harder.

In his peripheral vision Winston saw the demon's hands raise. "_Halt!_" it commanded, and though he wasn't sure the order was spoken aloud, the ghosts all fell back to encircle their master. Momentarily free, Ray wasted no time grabbing the destabilizer.

He hesitated firing, though, his eyes round. Egon and Peter's eyes widened as they stared directly at Winston, almost as if they could see him. The PKE meter on Egon's belt flashed, just as Ray shouted, "Winston!"

"He is gone," rumbled the demon. "Give him your farewells."

One of the demon's white hand rose before Winston's vision, palm outward, fingers splayed. It blocked his view of Ray's face, but he saw the destabilizer's beam ripple out. The current engulfed the demon, and flowed past him, harmless as a spray of mist. Egon and Peter's particle streams scattered as they touched the hand, the surrounding ghosts screeching as the energy sparked through their ranks.

"Winston, can you hear us?" Egon bellowed, even as he fired.

They knew he was here. And then Winston understood. He stared at the hand. The brown skin bleached whiter than paper, and when he tried to move it, close the fingers or bend the wrist, nothing happened. But it was his hand. His eyes that he saw out of, not the demon's. Possession. It was inside him—he was inside his own body, trapped, shunted aside by the demon. That terrible empty darkness was his own mind. And the thing attacking his teammates, who had struck Peter and commanded the ghosts against them, that was his own self.

Winston screamed his rage, but the demon didn't even deign to laugh. All his renewed struggles against its hideous bulk were futile as ever, and he was all the more aware of his own helplessness, when the limbs he moved were only imaginary. And still he watched, unable to turn his head aside or close his eyes. The hand, his hand, bluish around the once-pink fingernails, glowed as it parted the beams of both the throwers and the destabilizer. _The demon's too strong, try something else, guys, you gotta have something else up your sleeves..._

"Did you hear their farewells?" whispered the demon in his ear. The beams cut off, but the hand continued to glow. Distantly Winston felt the power building, flowing from the demon down his arm, into his hand. He fought to dam it back with all his might, but there was nothing to fight, no way to block it, and he couldn't twitch a single finger.

Egon shouted something just as Winston wrenched backward with all the strength in his imagined body. He thought he felt his hand for an instant, twisting back at the wrist. Then the energy exploded from it, green fire roaring forth, the heat so intense he felt it against his distant skin. It scorched the pavement and blinded him, so he couldn't see it reach his friends. No chance to hear them over the triumphant howls of the swarming ghosts.

_"No!"_

But not even the demon seemed to hear him.

 

* * *

Egon's warning came barely in time. Peter swung around his thrower just as the spectral flames singed their hair. The energies met and flared, so bright that not even the ghosts saw them stumble back. Under that cover the Ghostbusters retreated past the gate and behind the brick building towering over the lot.

"It's Winston!" Ray wasted no time affirming. "He's alive!" Shipping the destabilizer, he yanked the meter from Egon's belt and scrutinized the readout. "His rhythms aren't too strong but they're there!"

"So's Geddon," Peter pointed out, wiping ash from his eyes. "In spades."

"And his army," Egon added. He peered at the meter over Ray's shoulder and a small smile of relief curved his lips. "But Winston is definitely present, in spirit as well as body." The smile vanished. "Though not for much longer."

Ray nodded as Peter frowned. "Geddon's opening a crossrip," the occultist explained. "That's why he's in this lot, he needs the space. He must have just been starting when we arrived. Now..."

"He's forming a wormhole," Egon interpreted the readings. "Large and stable enough to allow all his army as well as himself to cross into his dimension. It won't take him more than an hour to complete it, and once he does—"

"Any chance he'll leave Winston behind?"

Ray shook his head. "I think he'd still want his body. Even if he didn't—he wouldn't let him go. Not that easily. Geddon's...cruel. He likes to hurt, and kill."

"Then why are we still here?"

Egon looked sharply at Peter, then nodded. "It's a good question. He is as powerful as his army, at least."

"Maybe more," Ray said. "He wants numbers to fight with, and the ghosts will be stronger in his dimension. Here, against us—he could've burned us like that before. I don't know why he didn't."

"I do." Peter's eyes glittered in the shadow of the streetlight. "You said it, Ray. He's cruel. We're playing mice to his cat. It's more fun to watch us run around trying to stop him than it is to just kill us."

"Reasonable," Egon granted. "However, if that's so, then Geddon will very likely kill Winston simply because—"

"Because he's our friend." Ray leaned against the brick wall, staring helplessly at the meter. "Egon, what can we do? The destabilizer doesn't work, not when he's ready for it, and he wouldn't let us near with the traps, either. Even if we could get past all the ghosts. We can't separate him from Winston with the throwers like we did with Peter and Watt; even if we could hit Geddon with the streams, we don't have his signal, and he's so strong. If we cross the streams, we'd blast Winston, too—"

"Even if we do, Geddon might prevent us from destroying his portal," Egon stated, stress edging his usually implacable bass. "At best we might alter its nature or destination; I doubt we can entirely obliterate it. If he succeeds in transporting his army this time, he may be inclined to return again soon and gather another one. Perhaps to use in this world, if he thinks we would be easily conquered. If he knows we cannot stop him—"

"I have an idea," Peter said softly. At his two teammates' hopeful looks, he smiled crookedly. "You're not gonna like it."

They didn't. But they agreed his plan had a chance of success, and that was about as good as they were going to get. Besides, after admitting that much, they knew they couldn't stop him as it were.

 

* * *

Winston had gone through enough transdimensional portals to recognize one when he saw it. He immediately grasped the nature of the spell the demon was weaving. In minutes the circle of flame would be a whirlpool, a gateway to another place, another universe. The demon's realm. Wherever that might be, it wouldn't be a prime vacation spot by any human standard.

Not to worry; he wouldn't be going as it were. He suspected his body might, still the demon's host, while his own human spirit was snuffed out like a birthday candle. That thought scared him almost as much as the thought of becoming the demon's servant. Almost. There was a part of him—most of him, really—that refused to believe it could be that simple, that final. He wasn't dead yet. He might still be saved.

Hope could be a wonderfully cruel thing.

Separate from his will, his bleached hands sliced through the air, shaping the fiery ring. The ghosts, sensing their approaching destiny, gathered closer, insubstantial forms gliding through one another, none close enough to touch him. Winston could no longer feel the demon, except as the presence controlling his body and the aura of magic tingling in his nerves. The creature's power must all be focused on creating the passage. Without the sensation of the serpent's coils, he had no perception of his body at all, the imaginary one lost to the nothingness. He could still see and hear clearly, but it was no better than watching television—worse, when he couldn't even change the channel.

The demon hadn't watched long enough to see what had happened to the Ghostbusters. Winston ached to know, more than he wanted his own freedom. Had they even survived the blast, that spectral flame thrown from his own fingers? He couldn't so much as turn his head and see if they were present. They should've escaped—his teammates were far too good to be taken out that easily. But had they made it?

"Hey, Geddon!"

They had.

If Winston had had control over his lungs, he would have stopped breathing. As it were he could only listen. "Yeah, I'm talking to you! Over here, snake-boy!"

Definitely Peter Venkman. No other man could address a demon quite so insolently.

The demon turned. Peter was visible at the entrance of the parking lot, his face pale against the dark street behind him. He waved, his proton pack nowhere in sight, and called again. "Hey, Geddon. Got a deal for you."

"No bargains," hissed the demon. "Hold still, that your death might be quick." One white hand lifted.

"Wait!" Peter cried hastily. "Think before you toast; I'm more useful alive!"

"How so?" The voice coming from his own mouth was not a human voice. Winston heard the demon's amusement, though he no longer felt its laughter.

"You're using that body, right? This one would suit you better." Venkman gestured at his own self. "It's younger, faster, better looking. And you're having to fight the original owner tooth and nail for the body you're in now. You won't get that from me."

The demon paused. "You would serve me?"

Peter nodded. "Yes. If you let the guy you have now go."

"Ah." The amusement increased. "Your friend, you would do this for. To save him, you would sacrifice your body and soul to me."

"If that's what it takes, yeah," Peter said, defiantly.

Winston futilely tried to protest. Where the hell were Egon and Ray? How could they let Peter get away with this? The demon might take the offer, if he wanted his general bad enough. Pete being Pete, it very well might be a trick. But it just as easily could be a genuine bargain. And there was no way Winston was going to accept it.

If he even had a choice. "Your friend here is a soldier," purred the demon. "I can use his skills in battle."

"I'm a fighter," Peter returned. "I've fought alongside him for years; I know as much about battles as he does. And if I had to, I could kick his ass."

"Truly? Show me."

That was as much warning as either Peter or Winston had before the demon struck. Without even a signal to his ghost army he lunged forward, his white fist clipping the psychologist in the jaw. Peter staggered back, rubbing his bruised chin. The demon wasted no time following up his first blow, but the Ghostbuster twisted out of the way and came up swinging, forcing the demon a step back.

They eyed each other. Peter's face was wary, eyes narrowed as he surveyed his opponent. Winston had seen that sharp, evaluating stare before, but not aimed at him, not for years. He wasn't eased by what he glimpsed further back in Peter's eyes, apprehension, desperation, a certain terrible doubt. Winston was only watching, unable to act. Peter was not so bound. He was attacking a friend, and even knowing Winston wasn't the one fighting, he hated it. He would be careful not to do any permanent damage.

The demon would not take such precautions. And if Pete pulled his punches too much, he'd lose. Peter must know that. Winston hoped like hell that he wouldn't ignore it.

Without even a glance to telegraph the move, the demon hammered his fists forward, lightning quick. Peter blocked, blocked again, then gasped as the third blow slammed into his stomach. He dropped—and kicked out, nearly knocking the demon off his feet, then threw a flurry of punches almost as fast. From his unique vantage point Winston cheered. The psychologist might have inclination toward the finer things and a couple of college degrees, but he had his roots in rougher neighborhoods. You were either a fighter or a loser on the streets—and Peter Venkman was no loser.

But Geddon came from a place far fiercer, and its powers weren't limited to mortal ability. The hits landed, but the demon braced against them, not bothering to block as he swung around a fist to smash against Peter's cheek. The Ghostbuster saw it too late to block or dodge fully; the blow glanced off his shoulder and spun him around. He went with it, aiming his answering strike at the solar plexus, but the demon was too fast. Like a snake he wound past the human's punch, slipped through his defenses and felled him with three sharp blows to his chest and face.

Peter's fall was no feint this time. He choked on the air forced from his lungs, rolling to avoid the demon's kick. Unsteadily standing, he spat blood at his opponent's feet, panting, "That's the best you can do?"

"No." Emerald light burst from the white fingers and cast the Ghostbuster once more to the pavement. Shaking his head dizzily, Peter levered himself off the ground. Before he climbed to his feet, Geddon grabbed his hair, wrenching his head back. The other bleached hand closed around the human's neck.

Inside his mind, Winston hollered, "_Stop!_"

The demon paused. Not sure if he was heard or not, Winston said, "I'll go with you, you bastard, I'll lead your ghosts. Leave him alone."

He couldn't feel the serpent's coils, but he could feel its mirth, almost a physical sensation, scalding his imaginary skin. The fingers loosened their grip.

In that second of indecision, Peter moved. Tearing free, he flung himself forward in his best quarterback's tackle. Ramming his head into the demon's stomach, he brought them both down, his forearm pressed against Geddon's throat to hold him there.

Winston wanted to cry out to him as well, but it was too late, even if Peter could have heard him. He could feel the demon's power within, around him, rising no matter how he fought it. Behind him the portal was glowing bright as a tiny sun, and the demon's ghosts circled it, their wails increasingly eager. In the false daylight Peter's face was white as he snarled, "I win."

"Perhaps you have," hissed the demon, triumphantly, and there was nothing Winston could do.

 

* * *

"Perhaps you have," said the scarlet-eyed mask molded over his friend's face, and Peter knew he had proved his point. He jumped back, releasing Geddon, who sprang to its feet with inhuman alacrity. Behind his back, Peter signaled frantically, trying to keep his cool while still facing the demon.

"Perhaps I could use you after all," the creature continued, stalking toward him, its head weaving side to side like a lizard's. The glowing red eyes contrasted with the azure hue of the dimensional gateway behind them. "You will come."

"Will you let Winston go?"

"Why should I?"

Peter didn't need to answer; Egon and Ray did for him. Overhead, beams of energy suddenly flashed into the gateway. The wide, wavering violet ray of the destabilizer, slightly modified, was paired with a single white proton stream, strung with crackling golden lightning. Under the assault the whirlpool of magic shimmered and swirled. The ghosts hovering before it retreated with shrieks of angry terror. Geddon spun around, stared at its creation, and whirled on Peter. Winston's blanched face was twisted with fury as the demon growled, "Think you to destroy my work so easily?"

"Your work, no. Just you, bunky."

When the destabilizer hit the gateway, its energy spread in a purple aura around the rim, lessening as it was drawn into the infinitely deep center. The proton stream shot directly into that hole, absorbed into its depths. Just as planned. At least Peter hoped it was supposed to look like that. "Prepare to say sayonara, Geddon, babe!"

"You will not touch me. You cannot," rumbled the demon. It stretched its white hands up toward the sky, then reared back its head and kept throwing it back, further than a human neck could bend. A sinuous, black and white striped form curved up beyond the human one, the eyes now fist-sized, scarlet stones set in a horned serpent's skull. Leathery black wings stretched on immensely long, white fingers arched above the ebony horn. Wrapped in the coils of the monster, the body it had vacated was little more than a still, dark shadow, nearly invisible.

The wings spread to block the Ghostbusters' beams, the vast, black pinions diffusing the energy. The blood-red eyes fell on Peter, and a silvery tongue slipped between fangs longer than his fingers. "Before I go, you I will take, as you agreed."

It struck like a giant cobra, faster than the eye could follow or a man could dodge. For an instant Peter was in utter darkness, all light blotted out, the portal and the beams and even the demon's eyes. He felt the fangs piercing him, a stab of icy cold worse than any blizzard or ghost.

Then they vanished. Geddon screamed. Peter stared up at the demon, its wings flapping frantically and head thrown back. From its portal fiery orange tendrils poured like water, hundreds twisting around the snakelike body and piercing the batwings. No matter how it writhed the demon could not free itself from the radiant webbing. Roaring in anger or pain, it was dragged up toward the portal. The giant spiked tail lashed once, flailing ineffectually against the pull.

And Geddon was gone.

A burst of light, and the gateway was gone as well. The ghosts scattered like seed in the wind. In their wake a lone figure swayed, then crumpled bonelessly to the pavement.

Ignoring the pain of his bruised ribs, Peter bolted to the prone man. Winston's face was drawn but dark again, and his shuddering gasps at least were regular. Wrapping an arm around his back, Peter helped his teammate sit up. By the time Egon and Ray had dashed over, he was blinking. "Wh...wha..."

Egon passed the PKE meter over him, then smiled broadly. "He's clear. You're fine, Winston. Any discomfort you feel is only a natural aftereffect of the energy depletion of a high-intensity possession. Time and nourishment will be required for recuperation—"

"Later, Spengs." Peter squeezed Winston's shoulders. "Hey, Zed. You with us? How do you feel?"

Winston seemed to be trying to inhale all the smog in the city with every breath. He finally forced out, "What happened?"

"You were possessed," Ray told him earnestly, crouching to rest one hand on their friend's arm. "By the demon from that warehouse. Only we didn't figure it out until it was almost too late. We did, though. It's gone, and you're still here. It's all okay."

"Knew...about demon," Winston panted. He leaned heavily on Peter, but his eyes were open, struggling to focus on them. "How...you stop it?"

"My brilliant plan, of course," Peter said lightly.

Winston twisted his head toward him. "To get...pounded by me?"

"Not you." Peter gave him a little shake. "Geddon, the demon. And that wasn't quite the plan, but we needed a distraction to get him out of you."

"Where..?" Winston looked at all of them.

"Geddon has returned to his dimension of origin," Egon explained. When Winston's eyes widened, he hastened to reassure, "He shouldn't return for some, if at all."

"Why—"

"Didn't we just trap him?" Peter completed for him.

Ray shook his head. "He was too strong. We couldn't really do much to him, not without hurting you, anyway. But then Peter realized—"

"It was kind of obvious, actually. Geddon was getting an army together, right? But he wanted to bring the ghosts back to his dimension—he was strong enough in this world to get what he wanted without help."

"We knew there were other demon's in Hell's Crossroads—Geddon's dimension," Ray resumed. "Peter figured out he was fighting them. And since he needed an army, the other demons of the First Circle were probably as strong as him or stronger. So—"

"We used the destabilizer to shift the gateway's location in Geddon's dimension," Egon took up the narration. "Assuming that he would have been opening a portal safe in his own domain, we tried to move it as far as we could. We then broadcast a high-powered proton stream through it as a signal, hoping to alert Geddon's enemies to its location. Our attempt apparently succeeded."

"Someone realized what he was up to, and snatched him. I hope they're having the time of their lives with him now." Peter grinned ferally, then nudged Winston. "That answer your questions, Zed?"

"Not quite," Winston groaned, still leaning on Peter.

"Wait 'til you're awake," the psychologist decided, before Ray opened his mouth to try again. "The party's over, Geddon has left the building, and we can go home. Just need to swing by the hospital to make sure you're up to snuff, and then we'll get some sleep."

"You should be examined as well, Peter," Egon pointed out, as he and Ray helped their teammates stand and steadied them. "You sustained some injuries."

"It's nothing."

"Really?" Egon arched blond eyebrows. "Nothing hurts?" He prodded Peter's ribs, eliciting a hiss of pain. "I see."

"Your healing touch needs work," Peter said through clenched teeth. Seeing Winston watching, he straightened with effort. "But yeah, I'm fine. Really."

And he was, bruises or no. Everything would heal up fine now, outside and in. Limping slightly, he lead them back to Ecto-1, all three of his teammates, just like it should be.

 

* * *

Time stops for no man. Even injured, the Ghostbusters were hopping the next day. While Geddon was gone, his ghost army remained, and most of the spirits he had stirred up were less than willing to return to peaceful repose. Janine was forced to take drastic measures placating the more excitable clients; she managed to clear their schedule enough to give them breathers to deal with what had gone on before.

Three days after the hospital gave them a clean bill of health, Winston disappeared after dinner. Before Egon whipped out the PKE meter and Ray rented out a search dog, Peter went to where he knew he'd be.

They all went up to the roof now and then. It was one of the perks of owning the entire building. Even three stories afforded a better view of the city then one could get from the streets. In the summer, they had barbecues on the roof, and a couple of years before Winston and Ray had bought a telescope. They spent many a night trying to catch glimpses of distant objects through the smog and light pollution. Peter had never cared much about astronomy one way or another; he preferred following the courses of the Earthly variety of stars. Winston, however, enjoyed tracking comets and locating Jupiter's moons as much as Ray did.

Tonight, though it was a cold night and relatively clear, Winston wasn't at the telescope. He sat on the brick ledge around the building's edge, gazing out over the city. Peter crossed the roof over to him, carefully avoiding looking down. "Here, Zed. You might be able to see the gymnast across the street better with these."

Winston started, though he must have heard Peter coming from a mile away. He frowned in confusion, then noticed the binoculars the psychologist was offering and snatched them away with a groan. "Man, sometimes I still can't tell when you're kidding."

"Hey, I'm not the one hiding binoculars in my closet. And you seemed like such a nice boy." Peter smirked.

"I wasn't hiding them. I forgot I had them." Looping the cord over his neck, Winston uncapped the lenses and aimed them at the sky. "They'd be useful with the 'scope. How'd you find them?"

"Stumbled across them, going through your stuff last week," Peter said plainly.

Winston lowered the binoculars and looked at him. " I'm still...getting over that." He exhaled. "I wouldn't believe it, if I hadn't had to stay with my folks all day yesterday. You guys really thought I was dead."

"So would you, if you'd seen that warehouse."

"You know, when I was with the demon..." Winston looked away from his teammate, out over the glittering night cityscape. "I thought I was dead. For a little while. I didn't know I was possessed, I didn't get that until you guys turned up hollering my name. I was sure you were charging to the rescue, but you took so long I was starting to wonder..."

"We took a while to figure it out ourselves. I'm sorry, Winston."

"Geeze, don't be! You came through. Man, did you ever."

"So you got Ray's explanation yesterday, about changing crossrip destinations and why Geddon's not coming back?"

"I got the gist. About as much as I ever hope to get."

A few seconds passed in companionable silence, marred by the evening traffic below. "So if they're not for peeping the underwear model next door, why do you have binoculars?" Peter finally asked.

Winston turned the pair over in his hands. "My mother gave them to me, a long time ago," he said slowly, remembering. "When I was a kid, my Uncle Jim and I would go upstate in the summer and fall. He had a friend with a big farm, and we used to go hunting for grouse and ducks. He taught me how to shoot a rifle. I always had a ball with him, walking in the woods, sitting in the blind together eating lunch.

"Then I enlisted, and when I got back from my tour...I wasn't much interested in guns. So Ma, for my birthday, gave me these. Told me Uncle Jim and me could go looking for birds still; we just didn't have to shoot them. Ma never liked hunting much."

"So, did you?"

"Oh, yeah. Uncle Jim ended up really enjoying birdwatching. He knew lots of birds just by their calls. We went out hiking every couple months, until he died. Haven't taken out these glasses for years, now."

Down on the street, a spate of honking car horns swelled and died. "Central Park's got some of the best birding in the country," Peter remarked after the noise faded. "This time of year the red-bellied woodpeckers must be nesting. And there's always plenty of waterfowl."

Winston subjected him to a hard stare. "And you know this how?"

"What, you're the only one with bird-watching relatives?" When Winston's suspicion didn't lessen, Peter rolled his eyes. "Clara Huntington, going for her ornithology masters, my, um, second year of grad school. Short dark hair, skin to die for... She knew a great place in the park, the Ramble. Early morning it was totally empty, and under this one tree was the perfect spot for—"

"Pete—"

"Birdsongs," Peter said without missing a beat. "Amazing warblers. I remember a bit. I even went on a couple of evening trips—not all our feathered friends are active at ungodly times of the morning." He pointed up. "Look, there's one." The tiny shape fluttered overhead, then dove down toward the street. "Or was that a bat?"

Small as it was, Peter didn't miss Winston's flinch in the darkness. Winston felt his teammate's eyes on him, and was deciding what to say when Peter started speaking quietly. "Tonight, for a limited time only, Dr. Venkman offers his renowned 'listening ear' for a special price of absolutely nothing—commentary optional at no extra charge. Don't miss this special offer, the doctor is standing by." He stuck his hands in his pockets, still watching Winston. "If you want to talk about it, or just talk to me—whatever you want."

Winston sighed and turned back toward the city. "I don't know. I don't even know what to talk about."

"That's okay too. Your way, right away." Peter dropped a hand onto his shoulder. "It's a standing offer, whenever you need it."

He nodded. "Gimme some time to sort it out. I'm going to be a little twitchy around snakes and bats for a while..."

"Probably not as bad as I am with roaches."

"I hope not. I can't scream that loudly for that long."

Peter punched his shoulder. "I got beaten up for this?"

"Yeah..." Winston glanced at him sidelong. "Pete, that was a big risk, going up against Geddon. Especially when you had no clue that plan of yours would work. Thought you were smarter than that."

"We didn't have much time," Peter returned, not insulted. "I was sure I was right. The only real question was how long it would take Geddon's enemies to catch on, and since he's one of the most powerful demons in that world, I figure they'd act fast."

"You couldn't have known Geddon wouldn't just blast you to get you out of the way," Winston said. "Pete, he could have. He could have killed you, and I couldn't have done a damn thing—I was watching, like I said, but I couldn't fight him—"

"Zed, I know." Peter stepped closer to his friend, ignoring the building's edge. "Possession isn't exactly an abstract concept to me. I remember what it was like having Watt inside me. I could fight him, but not enough to stop him—and Geddon was a hell of a lot stronger. Egon says you must have been giving him a run for his money, if you could see us at all. If you hadn't been fighting him so hard, you wouldn't have been able to even think. He'd've closed your consciousness down for as long as he needed your body."

"He wanted my mind," Winston murmured. "He liked playing with us. Letting me see what he was doing to you guys—that was his way of messing with my head."

"Not at the end. You were distracting him when he was fighting me."

"Not enough."

"Yes it was. I'm still here, right? It worked. No sweat."

Winston sighed. "Yeah. It worked. You're the luckiest damn fool I know. We all are. We keep pushing our luck like this, one of these days it's going to give."

"It hasn't yet," Peter pointed out. "But okay. We'll be careful. I'll be careful. No more crazy risks. On one condition."

"Yeah?"

"You don't do anything like dying on us ever again."

Winston opened his mouth, and closed it again. He shook his head. "Can't make that promise in this job."

Peter said nothing, only cocked his head as he let the silence make his point. A smile turned up the corners of Winston's mouth. "I'll try."

His teammate grinned. "Ditto for all of us. Now come on. Egon must have the cocoa done by now."

Winston groaned. "Do we—"

"I told you it wasn't optional. Figure it's about time we all had some. Come on."

Still leaning against the ledge, Winston crossed his arms. "You gonna make me, homeboy?"

"Make you?"

"Since you can kick my ass."

Peter's answering grin was almost as wide as Winston's. "Want me to show you?"

"Bring it on!"

"Ahem."

With the guilty start of two ten year olds caught dueling, they both turned. Egon's tall figure was silhouetted in the rooftop doorway. "The cocoa is ready," he announced.

"It's going to get cold," Ray said from behind the physicist. "Brrr, it's freezing out here! Can't you fight inside? I'll referee."

"Peter, one would have hoped you had outgrown this since college. And Winston, really..." He regarded his teammate thoughtfully, then suddenly joined their grin. "It's great to have you back."

"Amen to that, Spengs." Peter gave Winston a high five. "Amen to that!"


End file.
